THINK not I love him, though I ask for him; 'T is 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. 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 offence, his eye did heal it up, He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall; His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well: There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red Than that mixed in his cheek; 't was 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 causes to hate him than to love him: For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes wee black and my hair black; And, now I am remembered, scorned at me: I marvel, why I answered not again: But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VALEDICTION: OF THE BOOKE by JOHN DONNE AS KINGFISHERS CATCH FIRE by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS MOTHER HEART by NELLIE COOLEY ALDER A PRAYER by HENRY MAXIMILIAN BEERBOHM ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND by GEORGE HENRY BOKER HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 47 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |