‘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 offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not tall; yet for his years 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 mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d 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, my eyes were black, and my hair black, And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me: I marvel, why I answer’d not again; But that’s all one;’ and the passage of Perdita’s cited before about the daffodils that— ‘take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, Or Cytherea’s breath;’ and said that these were conclusive. But we have not, ourselves, heard young ladies converse in that manner.