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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, don’t scorn me; don’t, Phebe; Say that you don’t love me, but don’t say it In anger. The common executioner, Whose heart the constant sight of death hardens, Doesn’t strike the axe on the humbled neck Without first asking for forgiveness: will you be tougher Than the one who dies and lives on bloody tears?
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 wouldn’t be your executioner: I run from you, because I don’t want to hurt you. You say there’s murder in my eyes: It’s funny, sure, and very believable, That eyes, the weakest and softest things, Who close their gates on tiny things, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers! Now I’m frowning at you with all my heart; And if my eyes could hurt you, let them kill you now: Now pretend to faint; come on, fall down; Or if you can’t, oh, for shame, for shame, Don’t lie and say my eyes are murderers! Now show the wound my eye’s made in you: Scratch yourself with a pin, and there’ll be A scar left; lean on a rush, And the mark will stay on your palm for a while; but now my eyes, Which I’ve aimed at you, haven’t hurt you, And I’m sure there’s no power in eyes That can cause harm.
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.
Oh dear Phebe, If ever,—as that ever might happen,— You meet the power of love in a fresh face, Then you’ll understand the invisible wounds That love’s sharp arrows cause.
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, Torture me with your teasing, don’t pity me; Until that time I won’t pity you.
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 is that, I ask? Who could be your mother, That you insult, gloat, and all at once, Over the miserable? What if you have no beauty,— As, by my faith, I see nothing in you That would make you any better than a dark bed without a candle— Must you be proud and heartless because of it? Why, what’s going on? Why do you look at me like that? I see nothing in you but what’s common, Just the usual in nature’s market. Goodness, I think she’s trying to confuse my eyes too! No, honestly, proud lady, don’t get your hopes up: It’s not your dark eyebrows, your black silk hair, Your bulging eyes, or your creamy cheek, That can charm me into worshipping you. You foolish shepherd, why do you follow her, Like foggy south winds bringing rain? You’re a thousand times a better man Than she is a woman: it’s fools like you Who fill the world with unattractive children: It’s not her mirror, but you, that flatters her; And out of you, she sees herself as more beautiful Than any of her features can show her. But, lady, know yourself: get down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for the love of a good man: Because I must tell you honestly, Sell yourself when you can: you’re not for everyone: Ask for the man’s forgiveness; love him; take his offer: Evil is the worst kind of evil when it’s the evil of a scoffer. So take her, shepherd; good luck.
Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together: I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Sweet youth, I beg you, argue with me for a year: I’d rather hear you scold than hear this man woo me.
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’s fallen for your ugliness and she’ll Fall for my anger. If it’s true, then as quickly as She answers you with angry looks, I’ll answer her With harsh words. Why do you look at me like that?
For no ill will I bear you.
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.
I beg you, don’t fall in love with me, Because I’m more dishonest than vows made while drunk: Besides, I don’t like you. If you want to know where I live, It’s at the olive grove right here nearby. Will you come, sister? Shepherd, push her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look at him better, And don’t be proud: though the whole world could see, None could be more mistreated in sight than he. Come, 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 get your saying, ’Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’
Sweet Phebe,--
Sweet Phebe,--
Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius?
Huh, what are you saying, Silvius?
Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Sweet Phebe, feel sorry for me.
Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Well, I do feel sorry for you, kind 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.
Where there is sorrow, there should be relief: If you feel sorry for my pain in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Would both be wiped away.
Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?
You have my love: isn’t that enough?
I would have you.
I want 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 employ’d.
Well, that’s just being greedy. Silvius, there was a time I hated you, But it’s not that I love you now; But since you can talk about love so well, I’ll put up with your company, which I once disliked, And I’ll even give you work to do: But don’t expect any reward Other than your own happiness for being employed.
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 scatter’d smile, and that I’ll live upon.
My love is so pure and perfect, And I am so lacking in grace, That I’ll consider it a great reward To pick up the leftover bits after the main harvest: A scattered smile now and then, and that’s enough for me.
Know’st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Do you know the young man who spoke to me earlier?
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 seen him often; And he bought the cottage and land That the old man once owned.
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 mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference Between 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 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 remember’d, 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?
Don’t think I love him just because I’m asking about him: He’s just a brat, though he speaks nicely; But what do I care for words? Still, words are good When they please the listener. He’s a good-looking young man: not super handsome: But he’s proud, and it suits him: He’ll grow into a fine man: the best thing about him Is his complexion; and faster than his words His eyes fixed any wrongs. He’s not very tall; but for his age, he’s tall: His legs are okay, but they’re fine: His lips had a nice reddish color, A little deeper and more healthy red Than the color in his cheeks; it was the difference Between a steady red and a mix of pink. Some women, Silvius, if they’d noticed him Like I did, might have fallen in love with him; but as for me, I neither love him nor hate him; though I’ve more reason to hate him than to love him: Why should he scold me? He said my eyes were black and my hair black: And now that I remember, he mocked me: I wonder why I didn’t answer back: But it doesn’t matter; not responding doesn’t count as forgiveness. I’ll write him a mocking letter, And you’ll deliver it: will you, Silvius?
Phebe, with all my heart.
Phebe, 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 right away; The idea’s clear in my mind and heart: I’ll be harsh with him and very brief. Come with me, Silvius.