Not from the stars do I my judgment 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.