(william shakespeare)



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, or dearths, or seasons' quality;

Nor can i fortune to brief minutes tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,

Or say with princess if it whall go well

By oft predict that i in heaven find.

But from thine eyes my knowledge i derive,

And, constant stars, in them i read such art

As truth and beauty shall together thrive

If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:

Or else of thee this i prognosticate,

They and is truth's and beauty's doom and date.




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