Sonnet XIV
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.
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