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    AS YOU LIKE IT

    A monologue from the play by William Shakespeare


    PHEBE: 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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