I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye:
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but 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.