Sonnet 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 dy'd. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjerom 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 color it had stol'n from thee.