I chastised the early violet in this way:
"Sweet thief, where did you steal your sweet smell,
If not from my lovers's breath? The proud purple color
Which is on the complexion of your soft cheeks
You have dyed excessively in my love's veins."
I condemned the lily for stealing its whiteness from your hand,
And the marjoram buds had stolen their curls from your hair;
The roses stood by anxiously on their thorns,
One blushing red with shame, another white with despair,
A third, neither red nor white, had stolen from both colors,
And even added to his stolen goods the sweetness of your breath;
But for his theft, at the peak of his growth
A vengeful caterpillar ate him to death.
I saw more flowers, but I could see none
That had not stolen their smell or color from you.