Sonnet 154

The little Love-god lying once asleep

Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,

Whilst many nymphs, that vow’d chaste life to keep,

Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand

The fairest votary took up that fire,

Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d,

And so the general of hot desire

Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm’d.

This brand she quenchèd in a cool well by,

Which from love’s fire took heat perpetual,

Growing a bath and healthful remedy

For men diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall,

Came there for cure, and this by that I prove:

Love’s fire heats water; water cools not love.

The little love god, once again asleep,

Once again beside his hot arrow,

In an orchard that was safe and deep

With fruit, and girls with hearts pure,

Had his arrow stolen again, again by

A girl, not much like my mistress.

And like so many in history,

She delivered the heat from distress

By cooling it in kindness in a well.

And so Cupid’s fire, bathing the water,

Was ready to make many well.

But I was deep in my mistress’s fire.

And though I wanted to be cured,

Wells to fires cannot be moved.