to me, fair friend,
you never can be old.
for as you were, when first your eye,
such seems you beuaty still.
three winters cold have full forrests shook three summers pride.
three beautious 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 later waned.
ahh, yet doth beauty like a dour hand
steal from his figure, only pace percieved.
so your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand
hath motion and mine eye may be decieved.
for fear of which, hear this thou age unbread
air you were born was beatious summer dead.