Love’s Silence

Because I breathe not love to everie one,   Nor do not use set colors for to weare,   Nor nourish special locks of vowèd haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a groane,— The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moane   Of them who on their lips Love’s standard beare,   “What! he?” say they of me. “Now I dare sweare He cannot love: No, no! let him alone.”   And think so still,—if Stella know my minde. Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid’s art;   But you, faire maids, at length this true shall finde,— That his right badge is but worne in the hearte.   Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove:   They love indeed who quake to say they love.