Chapter 11
She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm in 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.
She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm in 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.