In himself he is; But in this kind,wanting your father's voice, The other must be held the worthier. HERMIA I would my father look'd but with my eyes. THESEUS Rather your eyes must with his judgment look. HERMIA I do entreat your grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold, Nor how it may concern my modesty, In such a presence here to plead my thoughts; But I beseech your grace that I may know The worst that may befall me in this case, If I refuse to wed Demetrius. THESEUS Either to die the death or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore,fair Hermia,question your desires; Know of your youth,examine well your blood, Whether,if you yield not to your father's choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life. Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows,lives and dies in single blessedness. HERMIAIn himself he is; But in this kind, wanting your father's voice, The other must be held the worthier. HERMIA I would my father look'd but with my eyes. THESEUS Rather your eyes must with his judgment look. HERMIA I do entreat your grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold, Nor how it may concern my modesty, In such a presence here to plead my thoughts; But I beseech your grace that I may know The worst that may befall me in this case, If I refuse to wed Demetrius. THESEUS Either to die the death or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires; Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness. HERMIA