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To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah, yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived: So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. |