Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE

SILVIUS

Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phoebe;  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, behind

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 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, 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.

SILVIUS

O dear Phoebe,  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

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 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?

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. Come, to our flock.

Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA and CORIN

PHEBE

Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,  'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?'

SILVIUS

Sweet Phoebe,--

PHEBE

Ha, what say'st thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

PHEBE

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

SILVIUS

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.

PHEBE

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

SILVIUS

I would have you.

PHEBE

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.

SILVIUS

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, and that I'll live upon.

PHEBE

Know'st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

SILVIUS

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.