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 please those that hear.
Don’t think I’m in love with him just because I’m asking about him.
He’s an irritable boy, though he speaks well.
But what do I care about words? And yet, words are a good
thing when the man speaking them is pleasant to listen to.
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’s good-looking, but not too good-looking.
He’s awfully proud, but his pride suits him.
He’ll grow up to be a proper man. The best thing about him is his complexion: as fast as he
offends me with words, his pretty face heals the wound
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.
He’s not very tall, but he’s tall enough for his age.
His legs aren’t great, but they’re alright.
His lips were nice and red, a little more lively and passionate than the red that was in his
cheeks—one was pure red and the other more pink.
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?
There are women out there, Silvius, who would have nearly fallen in love with him
after inspecting him as closely as I have.
But I don’t love him or hate him—though I suppose I have more reason to hate him than love him.
What right did he have to scold me like that?
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?
He said my eyes and my hair were black and, now that I think of it, he scorned me.
I’m surprised I didn’t bite back.
But no matter—I’ll get back at him soon enough.
I’ll write him a taunting letter, and you can deliver it. Will you do that for me, Silvius?