I Do Not Hate A

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

Will Fortune Never Come With Both Hands Full, But Write Her Fair Words Still In Foulest Terms?

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.

I Am Misanthropos, And Hate Mankind, For Thy Part, I Do Wish Thou Wert A Dog, That I Might Love Thee Something.

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.