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William Shakespeare - Sonnet 99: "The forward violet thus did I chide:..."
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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 dy`d.
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 robbery 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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