William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Not from the stars do I my iudgement plucke,

And yet me thinkes I haue Astronomy,

But not to tell of good, or euil lucke,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons quallity;¹

Nor can I fortune to breefe mynuits tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, raine and winde,²

Or say with Princes if it shal go wel

By oft predict that I in heauen finde.³

But from thine eies my knowledge I deriue,

And, constant stars, in them I read such art

As truth and beautie shal together thriue,

If from thy selfe to store thou wouldst conuert:

        Or else of thee this I prognosticate,

        Thy end is Truthes and Beauties doome and date.

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 thyself to store thou wouldst convert:

        Or else of thee this I prognosticate,

        Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.