”she never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. she pinned 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 we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.”