And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
Twelfth Night -- II. 4.
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit.
The Merchant of Venice -- II. 6.
MAN.
What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason!
How infinite in faculties! in form, and moving,