AS YOU LIKE PHEBE MONOLOUGE

monolouge with modern translation

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  • Created by: jac
  • Created on: 13-06-12 11:34

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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?

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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?

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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?

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