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 fin

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 JxkRmTgaaFShfllAAgPAj568ANbvK5FTAhap9WydAs5Y3v507lCa5pphK3lhmOdR