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 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 annexed 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 colour it had stol'n from thee