As You Like It

by William Shakespeare

O, thou didst then never love so heartily: If thou remember'st not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not lov'd: Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise, Thou hast not lov'd: Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy; This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

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:

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.