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? Thy purple prideWhich on thy soft cheek for complexion dwellsIn 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 bothAnd to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;But, for his theft, in pride of all his growthA vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could seeBut sweet or color it had stol'n from thee.