As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 5

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 th’ accustomed 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?

Sweet Phoebe, don't scorn me, don't, Phoebe. Say that you don't love me, but don't say it bitterly. The public executioner, whose heart is hardened by the familiar sight of death, doesn't let the axe fall on the bowed neck without first begging pardon. Will you be harder than a man who makes his living and death out of drops of blood?

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 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 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 not force in eyes That can do hurt.

I don't want to be your executioner; I run away from you because I don't want to hurt you. You tell me there is murder in my eye. It's a charming idea, certainly, and very likely, that eyes, which are the frailest and softest of things, and which shut their cowardly gates against specks of dust, should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers. Now I frown at you with all my heart, and if my eyes can wound, let them kill you now. Now pretend to faint; go on, fall down. Or if you can't, oh, for shame, for shame, don't lie and say my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eye has made in you. Just scratch yourself with a pin, and some scar of it stays behind; lean on a reed, and your palm keeps the mark and the visible impression for a while. But now my eyes, which I have shot at you, do you no harm; and I'm sure there is no power in eyes that can do harm.

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.

Oh dear Phoebe, if ever — and that time may be close — you meet the power of love in some young cheek, then you will know the invisible wounds that love's sharp arrows make.

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.

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

[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-favoured 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.

[Coming forward.] And why not, tell me? Who could your mother have been, that you insult and gloat, both at once, over someone miserable? Even if you have no beauty — and truly, I see no more in you than could go to bed in the dark without a candle — must you therefore be proud and merciless? Well, what does this mean? Why are you looking at me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary cheap goods nature turns out. God save my little life, I think she means to catch my eyes in her net too! No, honestly, proud lady, don't hope for that. It isn't your dark brows, your black silk hair, your bright bead eyes, nor your cream-coloured cheek that can tame my feelings into worshipping you. You foolish shepherd, why do you follow her about, like the damp south wind, blowing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times better a man than she is a woman. It's fools like you that fill the world with ugly children. It isn't her mirror but you that flatters her, and in you she sees herself as better-looking than any of her features can show her. But, lady, know yourself: get down on your knees and thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love. Because I must tell you in your ear, as a friend, sell while you can; you're not fit for every market. Beg the man's pardon, love him, accept his offer; ugliness is at its ugliest when the ugly turn scoffers. So take her, shepherd. Goodbye.

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

Sweet young man, please scold me for a whole year on end! I'd rather hear you scold than hear this man woo.

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's how it is, then as fast as she answers you with frowning looks, I'll season her with bitter words. Why are you looking at me like that?

For no ill will I bear you.

Because I bear you no ill will.

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 falser than promises made when drunk. Besides, I don't like you. If you want to know where my house is, it's by that clump of olive trees close by here. Will you come, sister? Shepherd, press her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, treat him better, and don't be proud. Even if the whole world could see, nobody could be as deceived in what they see as he is. Come, back to our flock.

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

Dead shepherd, now I see how powerful your saying was: "Whoever loved who did not love at first sight?"

Sweet Phoebe—

Sweet Phoebe—

Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?

Yes, what are you saying, Silvius?

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Sweet Phoebe, pity me.

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Why, I am sorry for you, gentle 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.

Wherever there is sorrow, relief ought to be there too. If you are sorry for my suffering in love, then by giving me your love your sorrow and my suffering would both be wiped out.

Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?

You have my love. Isn't that neighbourly enough?

I would have you.

I want to have you.

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 employed.

Why, that would be greed. Silvius, there was a time when I hated you; and even now it isn't that I feel love for you; but since you can talk about love so well, I will put up with your company, which used to annoy me, and I'll make use of you too. But don't expect any reward beyond your own gladness at being useful.

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 scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.

My love is so holy and so perfect, and I am so poor in favour, that I'll count it a very rich harvest just to gather the broken ears of corn left behind the man who reaps the main crop. Drop a stray smile now and then, and I'll live on that.

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

Do you know the young man who spoke to me a little while ago?

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.

Not very well, but I've met him often, and he has bought the cottage and the lands that the old peasant used to own.

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 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 Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked 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 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 a bad-tempered boy — and yet he talks well. But what do I care for words? Still, words do work well when the person speaking them pleases those who hear. He's a good-looking young man — not very good-looking — but he's certainly proud, and yet his pride suits him. He'll grow into a fine man. The best thing about him is his colouring; and quicker than his tongue gave offence, his eye healed it again. He isn't very tall, and yet he's tall for his age. His leg is only so-so, and yet it's fine. There was a pretty redness in his lip, a slightly riper and stronger red than the red mixed into his cheek. It was exactly the difference between plain red and pink-and-white mingled. There are some women, Silvius, who, if they had examined him bit by bit as I did, would have come close to falling in love with him; but as for me, I don't love him and I don't hate him — and yet I have more reason to hate him than to love him. For what business had he to scold me? He said my eyes were black and my hair was black, and now that I remember, he sneered at me. I wonder why I didn't answer back. But never mind: letting it pass isn't the same as letting him off. I'll write him a really mocking letter, and you shall carry it. Will you, Silvius?

Phoebe, with all my heart.

Phoebe, with all my heart.

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 at once. The substance of it is in my head and in my heart. I'll be harsh with him and extremely brief. Come with me, Silvius.