|Character name: ||Phoebe|
|Age Range: ||17 — 27|
|Show: ||As You Like It|
|Duration: ||0 — 1 minutes |
|Monologue Type: ||comedic,classical|
- 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?
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