Duke: And what's her history?
Viola: A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the 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.

Twelfth-Night [1601-1602], II, iv, 112