I need analysis

Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.
Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me. Do not, Phoebe.Say that you love me not, but say not soIn bitterness.
The common executioner,Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard,5Falls not the axe
upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody
drops?

Sweet Phoebe, don’t scorn me. Do not, Phoebe. You can tell me you don’t love me, but don’t do it so
bitterly. Even the executioner—whose heart has grown hard from seeing so much death—still begs his
victim’s pardon before he lets his axe fall. Will you be even crueler than someone who makes his living
through blood and killing?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, behind

PHOEBE

I would not be thy executioner.I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.10Thou tell’st me there is murder in
mine eye.’Tis pretty, sure, and very probableThat eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things,Who shut
their coward gates on atomies,Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers.15Now 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, Oh, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are
murderers.20Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.Scratch thee but with a pin, and there
remainsSome scar of it. Lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment
keeps. But now mine eyes,25Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not.Nor, I am sure, there is no force
in eyesThat can do hurt.

I don’t want to be your executioner. I avoid you so that I won’t hurt you. You tell me there is murder in
my eyes. That’s a pretty phrase, sure, and very probable that eyes—which are the frailest, softest things,
and so cowardly that they shut their lids even to something as harmless as dust—should be tyrants,
butchers, and murderers. Now I’m frowning at you with all my strength. And if my eyes really can
wound, then let them kill you. Now go ahead, pretend to faint, go fall down—or if you can’t, oh, for
shame, don’t lie and tell me that my eyes are murderers. Now show me the wound my eyes have caused
you. If you get scratched with a pin, it leaves a scar. If you even lean on a rush, it leaves a visible
impression in your palm for a moment. But my eyes, which I’ve hurled at you, haven’t hurt you at all.
Now I am sure that there is no force in eyes that can cause injury.