Acusé a la violeta de este modo:
Dulce ladrona, cuyo olor tan dulce
Tomaste del aliento de quien amo,
Y el purpúreo orgullo de tu rostro
Teñiste en la sangre de sus venas.
Culpé al lirio de hurtar tu mano blanca,
De quitarte el cabello a la sarilla;
Las rosas erizaron las espinas,
Con rubor una, pálida la otra.
Ni blanca ni roja, una tercera
A tu hálito unía ambos colores,
Mas no pudo ufanarse de su robo:
Corrompíala el cancro, vengativo.
Y no vi flor alguna que no hubiese
Arrancado de ti color o aroma.

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 annexed 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.