Sonnet Xiv

William Shakespeare

     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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