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.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet Cli
- Sonnets Cxvi: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds
- Sonnet 77: Thy Glass Will Show Thee How Thy Beauties Wear
- Sonnet 24: “mine Eye Hath Played The Painter And Hath Stelled…”
- Sonnet 44: If The Dull Substance Of My Flesh Were Thought