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 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 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.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 142: Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate
- Sonnet 113: Since I Left You, Mine Eye Is In My Mind
- Sonnet 10: For Shame, Deny That Thou Bear'st Love To Any
- Sonnet 110: Alas, 'Tis True, I Have Gone Here And There
- Sonnet 12: When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time