XIV. Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or feasons' quality; But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, 'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.' XV. When I confider every thing that grows B XVI. But wherefore do not you a mightier way With means more blessed than my barren rime? And many maiden gardens, yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers So should the lines of life that life repair, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. XVII. Who will believe my verse in time to come, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, XVIII. Shall I compare thee to a fummer's day? By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; Nor lofe poffeffion of that fair thou owest, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, |