Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,And yet methinks I have astronomy,But not to tell of good, or evil luck,Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality,Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell;Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,Or say with princes if it shall go wellBy oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,And constant stars in them I read such artAs truth and beauty shall together thriveIf from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
