Читать книгу The Complete Works of Shakespeare онлайн

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Phe.

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, murtherers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,

And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee.

Now counterfeit to swound; why, now fall down,

Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murtherers!

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.

Sil.

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.