Shakespeare's Sonnet 99

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 prideWhich on thy soft cheek for complexion dwellsIn 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 growthA 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.

This is how I scolded the bold violet: Sweet thief, where did you steal your lovely scent, if not from my love's breath? The glorious purple that colors your soft cheek was dyed far too freely in my love's veins.
I condemned the lily for stealing your hand's whiteness, and the marjoram buds had stolen your hair. The roses stood fearfully on their thorny stems, one blushing with shame, another white with despair. A third, neither red nor white, had stolen from both, and had added your breath to its stolen goods. But to punish its theft, a vengeful worm ate it to death in the full glory of its growth.
I noticed more flowers, but could not find a single one that had not stolen its scent or color from you.