Not from the stars, do I my judgement pluck,
And yet me thinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell   of good, or evil luck,
Of plagues, of deaths, or seasons quality, 
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Nor 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 would'st convert,
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truths  and beautys  doom and date. 




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