text: 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 turned
  In process of the seasons have I seen,
  Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
  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 beautys summer dead.