At the Heart of It All

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

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;

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