To me, fair Friend, you never can be old

"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' 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 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."

-William Shakespeare