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.