Caroline Hendricks_Phoebe_APT 2026

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 ewe, but not very pretty. But sure, he's proud, and yet his pride becomes him. You'll make a proper man. The best thing in him is his complexion, and sooner than his tongue did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He's not very tall, yet for his years he's tall. His leg is but so-so, and yet his well. There's a pretty redness in his lip. A little riper and more lusty red than mixed in his cheek t'was just the difference betwixt the constant red and mingled band. There be some women, Sylvius, had they marked him in parcels as I had, would have gone near to fall in love with him. But not 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 did he to do to chide at me? He said my eyes were black, and my hair black, and now I am remembered, scorned at me. I marvel why I answer, not again, not. But that's all one. Omnipotence is no quittance. I'll write him a very taunting letter, and thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Sylvius?