Viola: 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, Smiling at grief. Was this not love indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows but little in our love.
Orsino: But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Viola: I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.
Twelfth Night, or What You Will - Act II, Scene iv
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