Sonnet 102: Wher Be Those Roses Gone
Where
be
those
roses
gone,
which
sweeten'd
so
our
eyes?
Where
those
red
cheeks,
which
oft
with
fair
increase
did
frame
The
height
of
honor
in
the
kindly
badge
of
shame?
Who
hath
the
crimson
weeds
stol'n
from
my
morning
skies?
How
did
the
color
fade
of
those
vermilion
dyes
Which
Nature
self
did
make,
and
self
engrain'd
the
same?
I
would
know
by
what
right
this
paleness
overcame
That
hue,
whose
force
my
heart
still
unto
thraldom
ties.
Galen's
adoptive
sons,
who
by
a
beaten
way
Their
judgments
hackney
on,
the
fault
of
sickness
lay,
But
feeling
proof
makes
me
say
they
mistake
it
furre:
It
is
but
Love,
which
makes
his
paper
perfect
white
To
write
therein
more
fresh
the
story
of
delight,
While
Beauty's
reddest
ink
Venus
for
him
doth
stir.