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.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.

To saucy doubts and fears.

O, reason not the need!

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.