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sterner be

      Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

       Enter, [behind,] Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

       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,

      That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,

      Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

      Should be called tyrants, butchers, murtherers!

      Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,

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

      Now counterfeit to swound; why, now fall down,

      Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

      Lie not, to say mine eyes are murtherers!

      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 no force in eyes

      That 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,

      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. [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-favor’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.

       Phe.

      Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together,

      I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

      Ros. 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?

      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.

      Come, to our flock.

       Exit [with Celia and Corin].

       Phe.

      Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,

      “Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?”

       Sil.

      Sweet Phebe—

       Phe.

      Hah! what say’st thou, Silvius?

       Sil.

      Sweet Phebe, pity me.

       Phe.

      Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

       Sil.

      Where ever 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 neighborly?

       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 recompense

      Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.

      

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