Sonnet CIV

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,	1
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,	2
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold	3
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,	4
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd	5
In process of the seasons have I seen,	6
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,	7
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.	8
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,	9
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;	10
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,	11
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:	12
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;	13
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.	14