She never told her love,
But let concealment like a worm i'th'bud
Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
(We) men may say more, swear more, but indeed
(Our) shows are more than will: for still (we) prove
Much in (our) vows, but little in (our) love.
II.iv.106-114 Twelfth Night
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