by William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

To me, fair friend, you never can be old
Language: English 
Our translations:  ITA
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
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 perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
  For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
  Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

Available sung texts:   ← What is this?

•   L. Crabtree 

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2007-10-15
Line count: 14
Word count: 118