TO me, fair friend,
you never can be old |
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For as you were when first your eye I eyd, |
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Such seems your beauty still. Three winters
cold |
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Have from the forests shook three summers
pride, |
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Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn
turnd |
5 |
In process of the seasons have I seen, |
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Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burnd, |
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Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are
green. |
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Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, |
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Steal from his figure, and no pace perceivd; |
10 |
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth
stand, |
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Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceivd: |
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For fear of which, hear this,
thou age unbred: |
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Ere you were born was beautys
summer dead. |
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