she never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i'th' 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?

men may say more, swear more, but indeed their shows are more than will; for still they prove much in their vows but little in their love.

what a disappointment.

how is it fair that he can break her heart so easily, and yet he can let it pass as if it's nothing?

how is it fair that he expects her to give up so much for him, and yet he gives so little?

why is it the way it is, can somebody tell me?

for who can stop the heart from breaking?