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 pagues, of dearths, or season’s quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each is thunder, rein, and wind
Or say with Princes if it shall go well
by oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive
And costant 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,
Thy end is Truth’s and Beauty’s doom and date.