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 turned
In process of the seasons have I seen
Three April pérfumes in three hot Junes burned
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 perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead