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 thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d.
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 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.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet, or colour it had stol’n from thee.
In plain English
I scold a violet for stealing sweetness—where else could it get that fragrance but from my love's breath? The purple blush on its petals comes straight from my love's complexion. The lily has robbed my love's hand of its paleness, and buds of marjoram have stolen the color of his hair.
The roses stand on their thorns like they're caught between shame and despair—one blushing red, one ghostly white, and one mixed both colors. That third rose even stole my love's sweet scent. But theft demands punishment: a canker worm ate that rose alive as it reached full bloom.
I looked at every other flower in the garden. Not one of them had any beauty—no sweetness, no color—that wasn't stolen from my love. He's the source of all their loveliness.
