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Plus Account, previously an Early Adopter, Created on 29 July 2000 (#9064), Last updated on 6 November 2013 [Gift]
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the 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.
--Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 4