Лезли Крэбтри


Sonnet CIV

		William Shakespeare

	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 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 perceiv'd;
	So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
	Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
	For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
	Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.