Unrequited Love

From “Twelfth Night,” Act I. Sc. 4.   VIOLA.—Ay, but I know,—   DUKE.—What dost thou know?   VIOLA.—Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.   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? 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.