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XIV.
Not
from the stars do I my judgment 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
derive,
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 doom and date.
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