ACT III 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, 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: | 10 |
| '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: | 20 |
| 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 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 | 30 |
| 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? | 40 |
| 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? | 50 |
| 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: | 60 |
| 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. | 70 |
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, | 80 |
| 'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' |
SILVIUS | Sweet Phebe,-- |
PHEBE | Ha, what say'st thou, Silvius? |
SILVIUS | Sweet Phebe, 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: | 95 |
| 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. |
PHEBE | Think not I love him, though I ask for him: |
| 'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well; |
| But what care I for words? yet words do well | 110 |
| 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: |
| 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 | 120 |
| Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference |
| Between the constant red and mingled damask. |
| 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 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: | 130 |
| 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? |
SILVIUS | Phebe, with all my heart. |
PHEBE | 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] |