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 summer's pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumns 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.
ATTRIBUTION: William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British poet. To me, fair friend, you never can be old (l. 1-14). . .
The Unabridged William Shakespeare, William George Clark and William Aldis Wright, eds. (1989) Running Press.
Continue reading To me, fair friend, you never can be old
