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,
Nor can I
fortune to brief minutes tell;
Pointing
to each his thunder, rain 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
constant stars in them I read such art
As truth
and beauty shall together thrive
If from
thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of
thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is
truth's and beauty's doom and date.
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