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William Shakespeare (1564–1616).  The Oxford Shakespeare: Poems.  1914.

Sonnet 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         5
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;  10
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. 


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