- To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
- For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,
- Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
- Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
- Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d,
- In process of the seasons have I seen,
- Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,
- 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 perceiv’d;
- So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
- Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:
- For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
- Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.