My love is as a fever, longing still.
On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.
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.
There's daggers in men's smiles.
Friendship's full of dregs.
Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.