 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.  Twelfth night. Winter's tale - Sida 43efter William Shakespeare - 1788Obegränsad förhandsgranskning - Om den här boken
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