Sonnet 99

　　The forward violet thus did l 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 condemned 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 hi