Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from m у 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 the hand,
And buds of marjoram had sto'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully ou thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
А third, not red not white, had stolen of both,
And to this robbery had annex'd thy breath;