Sonnet 104

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 summer's 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 perceiv'd:
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

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