SCENE V. Another part of the Forest

       [Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

       SILVIUS

       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,

       Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

       But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be

       Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

       [Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance.]

       PHEBE

       I would not be thy executioner:

       I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

       Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:

       ‘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 called tyrants, butchers, murderers!

       Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

       And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:

       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.

       Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:

       Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

       Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,

       The cicatrice and capable impressure

       Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,

       Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

       Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes

       That can do hurt.

       SILVIUS

       O dear Phebe,

       If ever,—as that ever may be near,—

       You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

       Then shall you know the wounds invisible

       That love’s keen arrows make.

       PHEBE

       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.

       ROSALIND

       [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

       That you insult, exult, and all at once,

       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,—

       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,

       I think she means to tangle my eyes too!—

       No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;

       ‘Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

       Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

       That can entame my spirits to your worship.—

       You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

       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

       That makes the world full of ill-favour’d children:

       ‘Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

       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,—

       Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:

       Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;

       Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

       So take her to thee, shepherd;—fare you well.

       PHEBE

       Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together:

       I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

       ROSALIND

       He’s fall’n 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?

       PHEBE

       For no ill-will I bear you.

       ROSALIND

       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.—

       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.