Love Dissembled

From “As You Like It,” Act III. Sc. 5.   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 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 remembered, scorned at me: I marvel, why I answered not again: But that ’s all one; omittance is no quittance.