That very time I saw (but thou couldst not) Flying between the cold moon and the Earth, Cupid all armed. A certain aim he took At a fair vestal thronèd by the west, And loosed his love shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon, And the imperial votaress passèd on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet marked 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
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