William Shakespeare
2362 citations

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. ✨ 'Twelfth Night' (1601) act 2, sc. 4, l. [108]

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LoveSadnessThought

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