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 turned 
In process of the seasons have 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 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.