Actually he’s not.
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 showed thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.