XIV.

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have aftronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or feasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or fay 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 fuch art
As Truth and beauty fhall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert ;'
Or elfe of thee this I prognofticate:

'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.'

XV.

When I confider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in fecret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful fap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my fight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to fullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

B

XVI.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rime?
Now ftand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens, yet unset,

With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers
Much liker than your painted counterfeit :

So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still;

And

you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts ?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be fcorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And
your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song :
But were fome child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rime.

XVIII.

Shall I compare thee to a fummer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate :
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And fummer's lease hath all too short a date :
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair fometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lofe poffeffion of that fair thou owest,

Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'ft;

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.