Phoebe

Think not I love him, though I ask for him; 'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well. But what care I for words? Yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth; not very pretty; But sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him. He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offense, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall; yet for his year's he's tall. His leg is but so so; and yet 'tis well. There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but, for my part, I love him not nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him; For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black and my hair black; And, now I am rememb'red, scorned at me. I marvel why I answered not again. But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. I'll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius? Purchase

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