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?
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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.
Phoebe
But till that time
Come not thou near me. And when that time comes,
Afflict me with thy mocks,
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Silvius
O dear Phoebe,
If ever—as that ever may be near—
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,Synecdoche
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.Metaphor & Anastrophe
Phoebe
But till that time
Come not thou near me.
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Phoebe
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together.
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Rosalind, as Ganymede
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,
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Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?
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Phoebe
Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Silvius
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.

’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.
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Phoebe to Silvius
Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.
Silvius 
It is to be all made of sighs and tears,
And so am I for Phoebe.
Phoebe
And I for Ganymede.
Orlando 
And I for Rosalind.
Rosalind, as Ganymede
And I for no woman.
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Rosalind, to Duke
I’ll have no father, if you be not he.
 To Orlando.
I’ll have no husband, if you be not he,
 To Phoebe.
Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.

Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning,
That reason wonder may diminish
How thus we met,
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