Yet little things hurt in the memory,
Like a mote pricking in the eyelid: words
That may be fondest innocence, and may not.
A look, a flying colour in the cheek,
Soft hand-takings and silence of farewells;
These may be friendship’s language, but if not,
Friendship is foul.
Gawaine
These are the fears of the dead night that tempt
Reason against our own heart’s truth. Now, sleep.