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 saw, like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.

_Twelfth Night, A. 2, S. 4._


She shall be
A pattern to all ... living with her....
Holy and heavenly thoughts shall still counsel her;
She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her....
... Those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour....
... Yet a virgin,
A most unspotted lily shall she pass
To the ground, and all shall mourn her.

_Henry VIII., A. 5, S. 4._




JOHN MILTON.


Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye,