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 winter could
Have from the forests shook three summers's pride,
Three beauteous springs to yelllow autumn turned
In process of the seasons hava I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh,which yet are green.
Ah, yet doth beauty,like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figue,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.