A lover pretends to scold a violet for snatching its scent from his beloved’s breath, then does the same with other flowers. The lily has taken its pale complexion from her hands, marjoram buds have copied her hair, and roses blush or turn pale out of shame because their colors were stolen from her cheeks. One ambitious rose managed to steal both red and white plus her breath, but a cankerworm ate it as if nature itself punished the theft. Everything blooms with borrowed beauty.
The whole poem is a playful, over-the-top compliment dressed up as garden gossip. Instead of simply saying “you’re beautiful,” the speaker keeps insisting that every flower is a thief—and the only original source of sweetness and color is the person he addresses. The mood is light and witty, never sentimental. It feels like a teasing, affectionate joke that builds to the final couplet: every flower he looked at had taken something from her, leaving the beloved as the hidden model for all of spring.