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, 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 noted,

yet I none could see,

But sweet, or colour

it had stol'n from thee.