Sonnet Civ

William Shakespeare

     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.

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