I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.

And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Darker than darkest pansies.

Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.

Yet marked O 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.