Shakespeare's

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, Oh, 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 no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

Mine

I don't want to kill you! I'm running away because I don't want you to get hurt. You've told me that I can kill you with a look. It's so nice of you to say so, I'm sure it's completely true, and very reasonable too. I mean, eyes are probably the most delicate part of the body. They're soft, fragile, and flinch closed even at dust floating towards them, but sure. It makes perfect sense to call them tyrants, or butchers, or murderers.
Fine, see? I'm glaring at you. If my eyes can hurt you then die. Come on, pretend to faint. No? Then you should really stop lying and saying my eyes can kill you. Alright, then, show me where my eyes have hurt you. I want to see blood. Even little pins leave behind scratches you can see. Even setting your hand down on grass leaves a pale mark or a little dent in your skin for a moment where it was. But I can see that your hand is fine, even though I was just glaring at it. You aren't hurt! Jesus, eyes can't hurt people. They just can't.