Unrequited Love

William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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.