Sonnet 104

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I eyed,Such seems your beauty still. Three winters coldHave from the forests shook three summers' pride,Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'dIn 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 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.
A threesome summers can't killmy summery lust for your skillin looking a prize — they say that time flies,but sat on your face it stands still.