CIV. 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 bedeceiv'd:
          		 For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
          		 Ere you were born was beauty 's summer dead.