To me, fair friend,
You never can be old
For as you were, when first your eye,
I eyed,
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