1 To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
2 For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
3 Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
4 Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
5 Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
6 In process of the seasons have I seen,
7 Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
8 Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
9 Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
10 Steal from his figure and no pace perceiv'd;
11 So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
12 Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
13 For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
14 Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.