Montecute

To me, fair friend, you never can be old

For as you were when first your eye I ey'd

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 pérfumes 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 beauty's summer dead