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 dyed.’

The lily I condemnèd 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 robb’ry 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.

I play with the violet, who leans forward,

“You stole the scent from my love,” saying,

“Or else where did you get it? And lily, you’ve colored

Your flowers,” I go on playing,

“With dye from her hands, so that

I condemn you for your soft whiteness—

The result of theft.” Among the roses I sit,

Among the thorns, fearless.

The red ones blush (they know what they’ve done),

The white ones are pale (they don’t know what I’ll do),

And then there’s the pink one,

Who’s done two crimes against you.

Let them all burn. I see lots of flowers.

And what they have was rightfully ours.