[1] Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
[2] And yet methinks I have astronomy,
[3] But not to tell of good or evil luck,
[4] Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
[5] Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
[6] Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
[7] Or say with princes if it shall go well,
[8] By oft predict that I in heaven find:
[9] But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
[10] And, constant stars, in them I read such art
[11] As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
[12] If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
[13] Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
[14] Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
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