001 Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe; Say that you love me not, but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes hard, 005 Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon: will you sterner be 007 Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops? Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind. Phe. I would not be thy executioner: I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 010 Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye: 011 ’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers! 015 Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: 017 Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down; Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers! 020 Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 022 Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush, 023 The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, 025 Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not, 026 Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt. Sil. 027 O dear Phebe, If ever,—as that ever may be near,— 029 You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy. 030 Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love’s keen arrows make. Phe. But till that time Come not thou near me: and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As till that time I shall not pity thee. 035 Ros. And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, 036 That you insult, exult, and all at once, 037 Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,— As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed,— 040 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life, 044 I think she means to tangle my eyes too! 045 No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it: 046 ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, 048 That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, 050 Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you 053 That makes the world full of ill-favoured children: 054 ’Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; 055 And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love: For I must tell you friendly in your ear, 060 Sell when you can: you are not for all markets: Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer: 062 Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd: fare you well. Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together: 065 I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. 066 Ros. He’s fallen in love with your foulness and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me? 070 Phe. For no ill will I bear you. Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine: Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, ’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. 075 Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud: though all the world could see, None could be so abused in sight as he. 079 Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin. 080 Phe. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’ Sil. Sweet Phebe,— Phe. Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. 085 Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be: If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined. Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly? Sil. I would have you. Phe. 090 Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee, And yet it is not that I bear thee love; But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 095 I will endure, and I ’ll employ thee too: But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d. Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love, 099 And I in such a poverty of grace, 100 That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man 102 That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then A scatter’d smile, and that I’ll live upon. 104 Phe. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? 105 Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds 107 That the old carlot once was master of. Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; ’Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well; 110 But what care I for words? yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth: not very pretty: But, sure, he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him: He’ll make a proper man: the best thing in him 115 Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence his eye did heal it up. 117 He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall: His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well: There was a pretty redness in his lip, 120 A little riper and more lusty red Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him In parcels as I did, would have gone near 125 To fall in love with him: but, for my part, I love him not nor hate him not; and yet 127 I have more cause to hate him than to love him: For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black and my hair black; 130 And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me: I marvel why I answer’d not again: But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance. I’ll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius? Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. Phe. 135 I’ll write it straight; The matter’s in my head and in my heart: 137 I will be bitter with him and passing short. Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt.