THESEUS        Thrice blessed they that master so their blood

To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;

But earthlier happy is the rose distilled

Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,

Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.

HERMIA         So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

Ere I will yield my virgin patent up

Unto his lordship whose unwished yoke

My soul consents not to give sovereignty.  (1.1.74-82)

Theseus is perhaps supercilious, damning with faint praise, oh, thrice blessed they that master so their blood to undergo such maiden pilgrimage! Such amazing laydeeez, such self-CONTROL (so FRIGID and UNNATURAL; you don’t want that, do you, love? glancing/staring at Hippolyta?) (Or am I being unfair? Is he trying to set it out in realistic terms for Hermia, trying to get her to understand what it would mean?) But earthlier happy is the rose distilled—yes, plucked, deflowered, and given a second, new life in her children; and perfume, sexy, sweet—than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, grows, lives and dies in single blessedness. Being #blessed is all very well, but it’s not much of a life, not compared to one of sensual pleasure, love, and family. Sterile, lonely, sad. Is that REALLY what you want?

Hermia’s not taking the bait; she’s adamant. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord—yes, I do understand what you’re saying, I’m not stupid, not naive—ere I will yield my virgin patent up, yes, I can be precise, explicit too—unto his lordship whose unwished yoke my soul consents not to give sovereignty. I’ll be perfectly polite—he’s still his lordship—but I won’t be joined to him in marriage. I’m not having him. I don’t want him. And I DO NOT and I WILL NOT give my consent.