The Sonnets CIV - To me, fair friend, you never can be old
By William Shakespeare
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turnd,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burnd,
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 perceivd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceivd:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beautys summer dead.