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'J’he forward violet I thus did 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 wdiite despair; 
A thii'd, nor red nor white, had stolen 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 sw'eet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
The two following sonnets are very elegant examples of 
the inoraliiimg vein among the Bards of the olden time; 
who, to say truth, were generally speaking, more prone to 
coin new and quaint compliments to ladye’s channs while 
in their morning beauty, than to offer trite and unpalatable 
warnings of the decay and departure of such fleeting fasci¬ 
nations. The first, by Samuel Daniel (1562), concludes (as 
all proper sonnets should do) with what the lady addressed 
would gladly believe the cream and object of the effusion, 
but the preceding lines describing the Rose, and the havoc 
which “ swift speedy time” makes in youthful loveliness, are 
exceedingly touching and graceful. 
Look, Delia, how w’ esteem the half-blown rose. 
The image of thy blush and Summer’s honour. 
Whilst yet her tender bud doth uadisclose 
That full of beauty time bestows upon her; 
