HERMIA. Belike for want of rain, which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.
LYSANDER. Ay me! For aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.
But either it was different in blood— HERMIA. O cross! Too high to be enthrall'd to low.
LYSANDER. Or else misgraffèd in respect of years— HERMIA. O spite! Too old to be engag'd to young.”