Sonnet 99 by William Shakespeare

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 4

In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.”

The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 8

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,

And to his robb’ry had annexed thy breath;

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

A vengeful canker ate him up to death. 12

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

But sweet or color it had stol’n from thee.