. . . .She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
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?
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
