omittance

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 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 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 remembered , 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 ?