As You Like It
Act III, Scene 5
Another part of the Forest of Arden.
- Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Silvius1 - 7
- 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 th’ 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, behind, Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
Phebe8 - 27
- 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, 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 swound; 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 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.
Silvius28 - 32
- 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.
Phebe33 - 36
- 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.
Rosalind37 - 65
- 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.
Phebe66 - 67
- Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together,
- I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Rosalind68 - 71
- 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?
- For no ill will I bear you.
Rosalind73 - 81
- 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.
Phebe82 - 83
- Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,
- “Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?”
- Sweet Phebe—
- Hah! What say’st thou, Silvius?
- Sweet Phebe, pity me.
- Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Silvius88 - 91
- 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.
- Thou hast my love; is not that neighborly?
- I would have you.
Phebe94 - 101
- 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.
Silvius102 - 107
- 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 scatt’red smile, and that I’ll live upon.
- Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me yerwhile?
Silvius109 - 111
- 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.
Phebe112 - 138
- 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
- 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 offense, 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
- Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference
- Betwixt 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
- 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 rememb’red, 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?
- Phebe, with all my heart.
Phebe140 - 143
- 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.