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 coldHave from the forests shook three
summers' pride,Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn
turn'dIn 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.