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, 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, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but indeed Much in our vows, but little in our love. SHAKESPEARE. |