PHOEBE
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…
