Sonnet 104: 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,

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;

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.