The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (371 page)

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?

Sweet Phebe, do not hate me, do not, Phebe.

Say that you don’t love me, but don’t say it so

bitterly and meanly. The executioner,

whose hard heart is used to the sight of death,

does not immediately swing the ax down on the bent neck,

but first asks to be excused: will you be more hard-hearted

than he who makes his living by killing others?

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:

'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:

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.

I don’t want to be your executioner:

I’m trying to leave you so I don’t hurt you.

You tell me that my eyes look murderous –

what a nice thought, and a probably one,

that eyes, which are so frail and soft,

 which are so cowardly that they shut to keep dust out,

should be called tyrants, butchers, and murderers!

With all of my heart, I am frowning at you,

and if my eyes can hurt, then let them now kill you.

Now fake yourself fainting and fall down,

or if you cannot, you shameful man,

then stop lying by saying that my eyes are murderers!

Now, show me the wound that my eye made in you.

If I scratched you with a pin, there would be

a scar left. If you lean against a rush weed,

a mark from the pressure

is left for a moment on the palm. But my eyes,

which I looked at you with, did not hurt you,

nor is there any ability for eyes

to hurt someone.

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

That love's keen arrows make.

My dear Phebe,

If you ever – and hopefully soon –

fall in love with some man’s fresh cheek,

then you will see that the wounds are invisible

when they are made by love’s arrows.

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.

But until that time,

do not come near me. And when that time comes,

mock me mercilessly, without pity,

since I will not pity you until that time.

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?

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-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:

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.

And why won’t you? Please tell me. Who is your mother

that you insult the injury and exult over causing it, all at once,

that you made on some wretched man? You already aren’t beautiful –

truly, from what I can see in you,

you should go to bed in the dark without a candle –

do you need to be proud and mean as well?

What do you mean by this? Why are you looking at me?

I don’t see anything in you except the ordinary

work of nature. By God,

I think she wants to make me fall in love with her, too!

No, proud woman, do not put your hope in this:

your inky black eyebrows, your black, silky hair,

your eyes calling out to me, and your milky white cheek

do not tame me to worship you.

You foolish shepherd, why are you following her,

like fog following the wind and rain?

You are a much more proper man

than she is a proper woman: it’s fools like you

who by marrying poorly create ugly children.

It’s not her mirror, it’s you who flatters her,

and from you she sees a better version of herself

than any of her features can.

Mistress, be honest with yourself, bend down on your knees,

and thank heaven by fasting for giving you a good man to love you:

I must tell you honestly that

you should sell yourself when you can, because your price will not always be good.

Give the man mercy, love him, and take his offer.

The ugliest combination is to be ugly and scornful,

so take her, shepherd, and be well.

PHEBE

Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

Sweet young man, please, rebuke me for a year:

I would rather you chide me than this man woo me.

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?

He has fallen in love with you for your meanness [to Silvius] and she

is falling in love with my anger. If that is so, then

every time she answers you with a mean look, I will be rude

with bitter words. Why are you looking at me like that?

PHEBE

For no ill will I bear you.

I have no ill-will towards you.

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.

I’m telling you, do not fall in love with me

because I am more unfaithful than promises made while drunk.

Besides, I don’t like you. If you want to know where I live,

it is at the olive trees close by.

Come, sister. Shepherd, keep trying on her.

Come, sister. Shepherdess, look at him more fondly,

and do not be proud. Even if everyone in the world could see,

no one has as faulty sight as he does for thinking you beautiful.

Come, let’s go to the flock.

Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA and CORIN

PHEBE

Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,

'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?'

Dead Shepherd, the poet Marlowe, now I understand your words:

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”

SILVIUS

Sweet Phebe,--

Sweet Phebe–

PHEBE

Ha, what say'st thou, Silvius?

What are you saying to me, Silvius?

SILVIUS

Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Sweet Phebe, take pity on me.

PHEBE

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

I am 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 grief

Were both extermined.

Wherever there is sorrow, there is relief:

if you are sad that I am sad in my love for you,

you can love me back, and then my sadness and yours

will both be extinguished.

PHEBE

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

I do love you, as a friend and neighbor.

SILVIUS

I would have you.

I want to 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:

But do not look for further recompense

Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

That is just being greedy.

Silvius, there was a time when I hated you,

and I still do not love you,

but since you speak well about love,

your formerly annoying company

I will endure and keep around me in order to help me.

But do not look for anything more

than my own happiness that I can use you.

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