XIV. 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; 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 XVI. But wherefore do not you a mightier way With means more blessed than my barren rime? And many maiden gardens, yet unfet, With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers So fhould 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, But were fome child of yours alive that time, B XVIII. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? And every fair from fair fometime declines, Nor lofe poffeffion of that fair thou oweft, Nor fhall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, |