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A monologue from the play by William ShakespearePHEBE: I would not by 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 probableThat 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 swound; why, not 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 remainsSome scar of it; lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy 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 eyesThat can do hurt.