Shakespeare's Sonnets: To me, fair friend, you never can be old

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 coldHave from the forests shook three summers' pride,Three beaut'ous springs to yellow autumn turn'dIn process of the seasons have I seen.Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'dSince first I saw you fresh which yet are green.Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd,So your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand,Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived, For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.