Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold
Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass,
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass —
A time that lover’s slights doth still conceal —
Through Athen’s gates have we devised to steal.
How now, spirit, wither wander you?
Or in the beached margin of the sea
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind
How now, mad spirit?
What nightrule now about this haunted grove?
Hermia: Why, get you gone. Who is’t that hinders you?
Helena: A foolish heart that I leave here behind.
Where are these lads? Where are these hearts?