To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old
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.
