CELIA. “Was” is not “is”. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father. ROSALIND. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando? CELIA. O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here? Enter Corin. CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complained of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress. CELIA. Well, and what of him? CORIN. If you will see a pageant truly played Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it. ROSALIND. O, come, let us remove. The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I’ll prove a busy actor in their play. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another part of the Forest Enter Silvius and 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? Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin, at a distance. PHOEBE. 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, 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 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 not force in eyes That can do hurt. 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.