Читать книгу The Complete Works of Shakespeare онлайн

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And I in such a poverty of grace,

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then

A scatt’red smile, and that I’ll live upon.

Phe.

Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me yerwhile?

Sil.

Not very well, but I have met him oft,

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

That the old carlot once was master of.

Phe.

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 mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference