But there is something that excites in
us a stronger feeling than all this--it is Viola's confession of her
love.
Duke. What's her history?
Viola. A blank, my lord, she never told her love:
She let concealment, like a worm i' th' 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. 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.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Viola. I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.
Shakespeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.
Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.
What we so much admire here is not the image of Patience on a
monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and
after it. 'They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned.'
How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat them; and still,
still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing
wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert
shore! There are other passages of not less impassioned sweetness.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277