Not from the stars do I my judgment¹ pluck，

　　And yet methinks I have astronomy；

　　But not to tell of good or evil luck，

　　Of plagues， of dearths， or seasons' quality；

　　Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell，

　　Pointing to each his thunder， rain， and wind，

　　Or say with princes if it shall go well

　　By oft predict that I in heaven find.

　　But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive²，

　　And， constant stars， in them I read such art

　　As truth and beauty shall together thrive

　　If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert：

　　Or else of thee this I prognosticate，

　　Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom³ and date.