"Seems," madam? Nay, it is. I know not "seems."/'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,/Nor customary suits of solemn black,/Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,/
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,/Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,/Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,/That can denote me truly.