| |
|
CIV.
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.
|
|
|
