Act 3 - Scene 5
Another part of the forest.
Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE
Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe;
Say that you love me not, but say not so
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, behind
I would not be thy executioner:
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me there is murder in
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd 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
Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers!
the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of
it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps; but now
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
O dear Phebe,
If ever,--as that ever may be near,--
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
But till that time
Come not thou near me: and when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
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?
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
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
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
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper
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
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
take her to thee, shepherd: fare you well.
Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.