To me, fair friend, you never can be old
For as you were when first your eye I eyed
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 perfumes 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 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