XCIX

    The forward violet thus did I chide¹： 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 complexion² dwells In my love's veins³ thou hast too grossly dy'd. The lily I condemned⁴ 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 noted⁵, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.