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Or in the all-golden afternoon

A guest, or happy sister, sung,

Or here she brought the harp and flung

A ballad to the brightening moon.

TENNYSON.

vergente mox cantabat aureo die

aut hospes aut Calpurnia,

vel illa sumpta iam nitescentem lyra admurmurabat Cynthiam.

DUKE. VIOLA.

VIO.

Ay, but I know

DUKE. What dost thou know?

VIO.

DUKE.

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.

And what's her history?

ΑΝΑΞ. ΟΥΙΟΛΗ.

ΟΥ.

A.

καίτοι σάφ' οίδα

πράγματος τίνος πέρι;

ΟΥ. λίαν τόδ', οἷον ἀνδρὸς ἵμερον γυνὴ τρέφειν πέφυκεν ὡς ἐτητύμως δοκῶ ἀνδρῶν γυναῖκας πίστιν οὐχ ἥσσω τελεῖν. ἦν πατρὶ τὠμῷ παῖς τις, ἢ πόθῳ κέαρ ἀνδρὸς κατέσχεθ', ὥσπερ εἰ κἀγὼ γυνὴ κυρῶν ἔρωτι σῷ κατασχοίμην, ἄναξ.

Α. τύχας ἂν ἤδη τῆσδ ̓ ἀναπτύσσοις κόρης.

VIO.

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.

SHAKESPEARE.

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