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Act 3, Scene 4
As You Like It Translation Act 3, Scene 5
Enter SILVIUS and PHOEBE
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 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?
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe, don't scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don't love me, but don't do it so bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his victim's pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living through blood and killing?
Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind
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 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, Oh, 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.
PHOEBE
I don't want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won't hurt you. You tell me there is murder in my eyes. That's a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things, and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants, butchers, and murderers. Now I'm frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can't, oh, for shame, don't lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I've hurled at you, haven't hurt you at all. Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
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.
SILVIUS
Oh, dear Phoebe, if you ever should fall in love with some fresh face, then you will know about the invisible wounds that love's sharp arrows make.
PHOEBE
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.
PHOEBE
But until that time comes, don't come near me. And when that time comes, then you can mock me. But don't pity me, as I won't pity you now.
ROSALIND
[Advancing, as Ganymede] And why, I pray you? Who mightbe 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-favored 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.
ROSALIND
[Coming forward, speaking as Ganymede] And why, I ask you? Who raised you, that you would insult this wretched man and exult over his injuries all at once? Honestly, I don't see much in you—no more brightness than could light my way to bed in the dark—so why must you be so proud and pitiless? Why, what's going on? Why do you look at me? There is no more to you than nature's ordinary, mass-produced product.
[To herself] God save my life, I think she intends to ensnare my affections as well.
[To PHOEBE] No, proud mistress, don't hope for it. You can't tame my spirits and make me worship you—not with your ink-black eyebrows; your black silky hair; your black, bead-like eyeballs; or your creamy complexion.
[To SILVIUS] You foolish shepherd: why do you follow her like the foggy south wind, sighing and raining tears? You are a thousand times more handsome than she is. It's fools like you who fill the world with ugly children by marrying women like her. It's not her mirror but you who flatters her, and she thinks herself more beautiful than she is because of your reflection of her.
[To PHOEBE] But mistress, know yourself. Get down on your knees and thank heaven for giving you a good man's love. I must tell you as a friend that you should sell while you can, for you won't have buyers for long. Ask for this man's mercy, love him, and take his offer. Ugliness is at its worst when it is scornful of others.
[To SILVIUS] So take her, shepherd. Good luck.
PHOEBE
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together.I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
PHOEBE
Sweet youth, please keep scorning me all year long. I would rather hear your scolding than this man's wooing.
ROSALIND
He’s fall'n in love with your foulness. [to SILVIUS] And she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauceher with bitter words. [to PHOEBE] Why look you so uponme?
ROSALIND
He's fallen in love with your ugliness.
[To SILVIUS] And she's falling in love with my anger. If this is so, then as soon as she answers you with frowning looks, I'll rebuke her with bitter words.
[To PHOEBE] Why do you look at me like that?
PHOEBE
For no ill will I bear you.
PHOEBE
I don't mean you any harm.
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.
ROSALIND
Please, don't fall in love with me. I am more false than a promise made while drunk. Besides, I don't like you. If you want to know where my house is, it's in the olive grove here close by.
[To CELIA] Do you want to go, sister?
[To SILVIUS] Shepherd, keep working on her.
[To CELIA] Come on, sister.
[To PHOEBE] Shepherdess, think better of him, and don't be proud. Even if everyone in the world could see you, no one would be so blind as he is.
[To CELIA and CORIN] Come, let's go to our flock.
Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA and CORIN
PHOEBE
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
PHOEBE
Dead shepherd, now I understand the power of what you said earlier: "You only truly love when you fall in love at first sight."
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe—
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE
Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
PHOEBE
Ha, what did you say, Silvius?
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
SILVIUS
Sweet Phoebe, have pity on me.
PHOEBE
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
PHOEBE
Well, I am sorry for you, dear 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.
SILVIUS
If you're really sorry for me, you have the means to cure me. If you are really sorrowing over my grief in love, then love me back, and both your sorrow and my grief will be eliminated.
PHOEBE
Thou hast my love. Is not that neighborly?
PHOEBE
You have my love—my neighborly love. Isn't that enough?
SILVIUS
I would have you.
SILVIUS
I would have you.
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 recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
PHOEBE
Well, that's just being greedy. Silvius, I used to hate you, and I still don't love you. But since you can talk about love so well, I'll endure your company, and put you to some use too. But don't expect any more payment than your own happiness in working for me.
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 scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
SILVIUS
My love for you is so holy and perfect, and earlier you hated me so much, that I'll take the leftover scraps of your love's harvest and consider them a plentiful bounty. Every now and then let me have a smile, and I'll live on that.
PHOEBE
Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
PHOEBE
Do you know the youth who was speaking to me earlier?
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.
SILVIUS
Not very well, but I have met him a few times, and he bought the cottage and land that the old peasant 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 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 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?
PHOEBE
Don't start thinking that I love him, just because I'm asking about him. He is just an irritating boy—though he speaks well—but what do I care about words? Though words are good when the man speaking them is pleasant to hear. He is a fine youth—not very fine—but he's very proud—and yet his pride suits him well. He'll grow up to be a proper man. The best part about him is his complexion; as fast as his words offend me, his appearance heals their wounds. He is not very tall—but for his age he's tall. His legs are only so-so—and yet they're nice. He had a pretty redness in his lips, a little darker and more passionate than the red that was in his cheeks; one was pure red and the other mingled pink and white. Silvius, there are some women who would have almost fallen in love with him after inspecting all his parts like I have. But for my part I neither love him nor hate him. Although I have better reason to hate him than to love him. What right did he have to scold me? He said my eyes were black and my hair was black and, now that I remember it, he scorned me too. I'm shocked that I didn't answer him back in the same way. But that's all right: forgetting to assert my rights doesn't mean they don't exist. I'll write him a very taunting letter, and you will deliver it. Will you, Silvius?
SILVIUS
Phoebe, with all my heart.
SILVIUS
With all my heart, Phoebe.
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.
PHOEBE
I'll write it immediately. What I want to say is already in my head and in my heart. I'll be bitter and extremely curt with him. Come with me, Silvius.
Exeunt
