To hide from my own breast.
Jaq. Alas, dear lady,
Did not your tongue reveal it, your chang'd mien,
Once lighter than the airy wood-nymph's shade,
Now turn'd to pensive thought and melancholy,—
Involuntary sighs,—your cheek, unlike
Its wonted bloom, as is the red-vein'd rose,
To the dim sweetness of the violet—
These had too soon betray'd you. But take heed;
The colour of our fate too oft is ting'd,