THe forward violet thus did I chide, Sweet thief whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells If not from my love's breath ?
The purple pride, Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed, The Lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair, The Roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair: A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robb'ry had annex'd thy breath, But for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.
