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.