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 quenched 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.
In plain English
Cupid fell asleep and left his torch—the weapon that sets hearts on fire—lying unguarded. A beautiful young woman who'd sworn to stay chaste picked it up while a group of nymphs walked past. She took the very flame that had inflamed countless lovers.
She dipped the torch into a nearby cool spring, and the fire transformed that water into a healing bath. Men came from everywhere to soak in it and cure their lovesickness. But here's the paradox: I went there too, enslaved by my mistress, hoping to cool my passion. The experience proved the opposite of what I needed.
The water heats from Love's fire, but water itself will never cool love down. You can't extinguish desire by dunking yourself in it—the fire just keeps burning, no matter what you do.
