[160] As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts:
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft
[162] Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
[163] And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
165 Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew’d thee once: