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,
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^{8 note}

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, at a distance.

Phe.
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^{9 note},
That eyes,—that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut 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 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 but upon a rush^{1 note},
The cicatrice and capable impressure^{2 note}

Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not:
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
Than can do hurt.

Sil.
O dear Phebe,
If ever, (as that ever may be near,)
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy^{3 note},
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.

Ros.
And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother^{4 note},
That you insult, exult, and all at once^{5 note}

Over the wretched? What though you have mo beauty^{6 note}

(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^{7 note}:—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 eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship^{8 note}
.—
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 make 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^{9 note}.
So, take her to thee, shepherd;—fare you well.

Phe.
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Ros.

He's fallen in love with her foulness^{1 note}, 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?

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:—
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 abus'd in sight as he^{2 note}
.
Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe.
Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight^{3 note}

Sil.
Sweet Phebe,—

Phe.
Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?

Sil.
Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

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 extermin'd.

Phe.
Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly?

Sil.
I would have you.

Phe.
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,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

Sil.
So holy, and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then
A scatter'd smile^{4 note}

, and that I'll live upon.

Phe.
Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere while?

Sil.
Not very well, but I have met him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds,
That the old carlot once was master of^{5 note}.

Phe.
Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy^{6 note}
:—yet he talks well;—
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
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall^{7 note}
:
His leg is but so so; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;
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^{8 note}.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him: but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause^{9 note} 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;
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.
I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt.

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