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.