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Act I, Scene 104

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  • Shakespeare. To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
    For as you were when first your eye I eyed, 1445
    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, 1450
    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: 1455
    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
    Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

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