Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
William Shakespeare. 15641616159. Sonnets xv
TO me, fair friend, you never can be old; | |
For as you were when first your eye I eyed, | |
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 perceived; | 10 |
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, | |
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: | |
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: | |
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead. |