Orsino: 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 pin'd in thought, And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
whats, history, Viola, blank, lord, never, love, concealment, worm
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