Surntti 
Shakspeare. 
fJMIE forward Violet thus did I chide;— 
1 Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smell 
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 condemned for thy hand, 
And beds of Marjoram had stolen thy hair: 
The Roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
One blushing shame, another white despair; 
A third, nor red, nor white, had stolen of both, 
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath; 
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker ate him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee. 
