It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid,
Will make a man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
W. Shakspeare, 1564–1616.
THE GARLAND.
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, the lily fair,