As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 5

Silvius

Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness. The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,Falls not the axe upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Please don’t, Phoebe. Say you don’t love me, but don’t say it bitterly. Even the public executioner, whose heart has been hardened by the familiar sight of death, asks forgiveness before bringing his axe down on a bowed neck. Will you be crueler than a man whose whole life and livelihood depend on bloodshed?

Phoebe

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 probableThat 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 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 remainsSome scar of it; lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes,Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;Nor I am sure there is not force in eyesThat can do hurt.

I wouldn’t be your executioner. I run away from you because I don’t want to hurt you. You tell me my eyes can murder. How charming, and how believable, that eyes—the frailest, softest things, which shut their cowardly gates against tiny specks of dust—should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my might, and if my eyes can wound you, let them kill you now. Go on, pretend to faint. Come on, fall down. If you can’t, then shame on you, shame on you! Don’t lie and say my eyes are murderers. Show me the wound my eyes have made in you. Scratch yourself with a pin, and it leaves a mark. Press your hand against a reed, and your palm keeps a visible impression for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve been shooting at you, haven’t hurt you. And I’m sure eyes have no power to do any harm.

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 invisibleThat love’s keen arrows make.

Oh, dear Phoebe, if you ever discover the power of love in a fresh young face—and that time may be near—then you’ll understand the invisible wounds that love’s sharp arrows make.

Phoebe

But till that timeCome 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.

Until then, don’t come near me. And when that time comes, torment me with your mockery. Don’t pity me, just as I won’t pity you until then.

Rosalind

[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 youThan 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 ordinaryOf 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 manThan she a woman. ’Tis such fools as youThat makes the world full of ill-favoured children.’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her,And out of you she sees herself more properThan 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.

[Stepping forward.] And why not, please? Just who was your mother that you think you can insult the miserable and gloat over them at the same time? Even if you have no beauty—and honestly, I see nothing in you that couldn’t go to bed in the dark without a candle—does that mean you must be proud and heartless? What’s this? Why are you staring at me? I see nothing in you beyond nature’s ordinary mass-produced goods. Good heavens, I think she means to catch my eye too! No, really, proud young lady, don’t hope for that. Your ink-black eyebrows, your black silk hair, your eyes like black glass beads, and your creamy cheeks won’t tame me into worshipping you. You foolish shepherd, why do you follow her like a damp south wind, puffing out sighs and rainstorms of tears? You’re a thousand times better-looking as a man than she is as a woman. Fools like you fill the world with ugly children. It isn’t her mirror that flatters her, but you. Through your eyes she sees herself as prettier than any of her features could show her. But, young lady, take an honest look at yourself. Get on your knees, fast, and thank heaven for a good man’s love. Let me whisper some friendly advice: sell while you have a buyer. You won’t appeal to every customer. Ask his forgiveness, love him, and accept his offer. An ugly person is ugliest when she’s ugly enough to mock others. So take her, shepherd. Goodbye.

Phoebe

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

Sweet young man, please keep scolding me for a whole year! I’d rather hear you scold than hear this man court me.

Rosalind

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?

He’s fallen in love with your ugliness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If that happens, every time she answers you with a frown, I’ll give her a helping of bitter words. Why are you looking at me like that?

Phoebe

For no ill will I bear you.

Because I bear you no ill will.

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.

Please don’t fall in love with me, because I’m less faithful than promises made when drunk. Besides, I don’t like you. If you want to know where I live, it’s by that clump of olive trees nearby. Shall we go, sister? Shepherd, keep pressing your suit. Come, sister. Shepherdess, take a better look at him, and don’t be proud. Even if everyone in the world could see, no one’s eyes could deceive them as badly as his deceive him. Come, let’s go to our flock.

Phoebe

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”

Dead shepherd, now I see the power of your saying: “Who ever truly loved without loving at first sight?”

Silvius

Sweet Phoebe—

Sweet Phoebe—

Phoebe

Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?

What? What did you say, Silvius?

Silvius

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Phoebe

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Well, I do feel sorry for you, 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 griefWere both extermined.

Where there’s pity, there should be relief. If you pity the pain my love causes me, then by loving me you could put an end to both your pity and my pain.

Phoebe

Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?

You have my love. Isn’t that neighborly?

Silvius

I would have you.

I want you yourself.

Phoebe

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 recompenseThan thine own gladness that thou art employed.

Well, that would be greedy. Silvius, there was a time when I hated you. That doesn’t mean I love you now. But since you can talk about love so well, I’ll put up with your company, which used to annoy me, and I’ll give you things to do for me too. But don’t expect any reward beyond your own happiness at being useful.

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 cropTo glean the broken ears after the manThat the main harvest reaps. Loose now and thenA scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.

My love is so pure and perfect, and I’m so poor in your favor, that I’ll consider it a rich crop if I can gather the broken stalks left behind by the man who reaps the main harvest. Let a stray smile fall now and then, and I’ll live on that.

Phoebe

Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

Do you know the young man who spoke to me just now?

Silvius

Not very well, but I have met him oft,And he hath bought the cottage and the boundsThat the old carlot once was master of.

Not very well, but I’ve met him often. He bought the cottage and land that the old farmer used to own.

Phoebe

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 wellWhen 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 himIs his complexion; and faster than his tongueDid 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 redThan that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the differenceBetwixt the constant red and mingled damask.There be some women, Silvius, had they marked himIn parcels as I did, would have gone nearTo fall in love with him; but for my partI love him not nor hate him not; and yetI 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 remembered, scorned at me.I marvel why I answered 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?

Don’t think I love him just because I ask about him. He’s only an ill-tempered boy—though he does speak well. But what do I care about words? Still, words are pleasing when the speaker pleases the listener. He’s a handsome youth—not very handsome. He’s certainly proud, but his pride suits him. He’ll make a fine-looking man. His complexion is his best feature, and his eyes healed the wounds faster than his tongue could inflict them. He isn’t very tall, though he’s tall for his age. His legs are only average, and yet they’re nice. His lips had a pretty redness, a little richer and more vivid than the red mixed into his cheeks. It was just the difference between solid red and a blend of pink and white. Some women, Silvius, if they’d examined him feature by feature as I did, would have come close to falling in love with him. But for my part, I neither love nor hate him. Still, I have more reason to hate him than to love him. What business did he have scolding me? He said my eyes were black and my hair was black, and now that I remember, he mocked me. I wonder why I didn’t answer back. But never mind: letting it pass doesn’t mean letting him off. I’ll write him a very scornful letter, and you’ll carry it. Will you, Silvius?

Silvius

Phoebe, with all my heart.

Phoebe, with all my heart.

Phoebe

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.

I’ll write it right away. I know in my head and my heart what to say. I’ll be harsh with him and very brief. Come with me, Silvius.