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Sonnet. 





ae 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 check for complexion dwells, 

| 
Shakspeare. 
In my Love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
The Lily I condemnéd for thy hand, 
And beds of Marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
The Roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 
One blushing shame, another white despair ; 
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. 

A third, nor red, nor white, had stolen of both, 
