William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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 condemnèd for thy hand

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair;

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,

And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;

But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

A vengeful canker ate him up to death.

More flowers I noted; yet I none could see

But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.