Q 99

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.
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