2003-11-05 - 7:34 p.m.

She never told her love

but like concealment like a worm i' the bud

Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought

and with a green and yellow meloncholy

She sat like patience on a monument

smiling at grief. Was this not love indeed?

(okay, so I'm being melodramatic. But I must not live that way!!)