Viola. A blank, my lord, she never told her love: She let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, Feed on her damask cheek, she pin'd 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 still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. Duke. 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. Shakespeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry. Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. What we so much admire here is not the image of Patience on a monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and after it. 'They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned.' How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat them; and still, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert shore! There are other passages of not less impassioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian whom she supposes to have already deceived her in a promise of marriage. Blame not this haste of mine: if you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, THAT MY MOST JEALOUS AND TOO DOUBTFUL SOUL MAY LIVE AT PEACE. We have already said something of Shakespeare's songs. One of the most beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his own to it. Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. Song Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it; My part of death no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown; A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O! where Sad true-love never find my grave, To weep there.