A blank, my lord: she never told her love, / But let concealment like a worm i' th' bud / Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd 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 man 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.