O dear Phoebe, If ever—as that ever may be near—

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, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.

Rosalind, as Ganymede, coming forward
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-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.
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, I’ll sauce her with bitter words.
( To Phoebe. ) Why look you so upon me?
Phoebe
For no ill will I bear you.
Rosalind, as Ganymede
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not.