CIV

    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 perfumes¹ 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 hue², which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion³, 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.