To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forest shook three summers’ pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, ere the time be done. That you remember the well of heaven’s strand, And you alone have guilt wherein the sun Doth take a diamond’s glass at noon, I know: Therefore to tell the beauteous that you fare Makes me grow old, though never you can stare.

— Sonnet 104

• William Shakespeare