For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved.
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved.
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, 1015
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
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, 1015
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
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