Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 17

     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.