William Shakespeare. 1564–1616

Sonnet XCIX.

“The forward violet thus did I chide”


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.    5
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,   10
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 noted, yet I none could see  
  But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.   15