Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
I. AdmirationLove Dissembled
William Shakespeare (15641616)T
’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.