Not from the stars
do i my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks i
have astronomy;
But not to tell of
good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of
dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can i fortune
to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each
his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with
princes if it shall go well
By oft predict
that i in heaven find.
But from thine
eyes my knowledge i derive,
And, constant
stars, in them i read such art
As truth and
beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to
store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee
this i prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's
and beauty's doom and date.
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thanks