Enter PUCK.

PUCK  Through the forest have I gone,

But Athenian found I none

On whose eyes I might approve

This flower’s force in stirring love.

Night and silence! Who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear.

This is he, my master said,

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound

On the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul, she durst not lie

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.         (2.2.70-81)

Puck’s back! And he is OVER this; he’s been looking and looking and hasn’t been able to do as Oberon instructed: through the forest have I gone, I’ve been EVERYWHERE, but Athenian found I none—no suitable Greeks!—on whose eyes I might approve this flower’s force in stirring love. No chance of trying out exactly what this little herb is capable of, attraction-infatuation-wise. Not a sniff. I’ve had ENOUGH, grumbles Puck; also, he’s worried about what Oberon will say. But, night and silence! Ohohoho! Who is here? who DIS? Weeds of Athens he doth wear, that’s absolutely Greek gear. (Whatever Lysander’s wearing, that’s Athenian fashion.) So this is he, my master said, despised the Athenian maid—the man who was being so horrid to the nice lady! BOOOOOO! And look, here the maiden, sleeping sound on the dank and dirty ground. There she is, all by herself, he hasn’t even offered her his coat! BOOOOOOOOOOO! Pretty soul, she durst not lie near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. He’s rejected her so forcefully that even in the middle of the night, in this deserted place, she doesn’t think that he’ll offer her any protection, any comfort. What a disgrace! What a rude, nasty man; he could at least be a gentleman about it.