Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.
William ShakespeareShe 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.
William Shakespeare