DUKE: And what's her history?
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 not this love indeed?
~Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
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