Sonnet 104: To me, fair friend, you never can be old

1To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

2For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,

3Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,

4Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,

5Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,

6In process of the seasons have I seen,

7Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

8Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

9Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,

10Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;

11So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

12Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:

13 For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:

14 Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.