HERMIA Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,
The ear more quick of apprehension makes;
Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,
It pays the hearing double recompense.
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;
Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound.
But why, unkindly, didst thou leave me so?
LYSANDER Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?
HERMIA What love could press Lysander from my side?
LYSANDER Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide:
Fair Helena, who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. (3.2.177-188)
Hermia! And she’s so relieved: dark night, that from the eye his function takes, the ear more quick of apprehension makes; wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, it pays the hearing double recompense. When you can’t see anything in the dark, your hearing compensates! A little commonplace, repeated for good measure; surely everything will be resolved now? She thought Lysander was DEAD, and here he is; she found him by his voice: thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. I’d know your voice anywhere! Then just the tiniest suspicion, which might be reinforced by whatever Lysander’s up to—ignoring her, looking shifty, jostling with Demetrius to get closer to Helena: but why, unkindly, didst thou leave me so? What was all that about? That’s not like you at all! Lysander has to complete the couplet—why should he stay, whom love doth press to go? why should I stick around, I had better things to do; I was COMPELLED by LOVE—but that makes no sense to Hermia, of course: what love could press Lysander from my side? Something is starting to feel very off here. And Lysander’s got no filter at all: Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide. It was like I was POSSESSED (oh yes), completely at love’s mercy (keep telling yourself that, man, you’re stoned out of your mind) (the talking about himself in the third person is not endearing either): my love, the thing that was drawing me on, consuming every fibre and particle of my being with passion, was, IS, fair Helen, who more engilds the night than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Even when he’s being ridiculous, and starting—just starting—to put the boot in to the bewildered Hermia, he has that beautiful description of Helena, who make night more radiant than the stars themselves, which here become little spangles and sparkles, as if the night-sky has been hit with a glitter-bomb. Yeah, Helena’s better than STARLIGHT!
