Sonnet 99

William Shakespeare

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 the soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly died.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds 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 stol’n of both
And to his robbery had annexed 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 stolen from thee.

About literarylee

I sling words for a living. Always have, always will. Some have been interesting and fun; most not. These days, I write the fun words early in the morning before the adults are up and make me eat my Cream of Wheat.
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