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Act I, Scene 99

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  • 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 1375
    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, 1380
    One blushing shame, another white despair;
    A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n 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. 1385
    More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
    But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

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