| | Sonnet 14 |
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Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, |
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And yet methinks I have astronomy, |
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But not to tell of good or evil luck, |
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Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; |
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Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, |
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Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind, |
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Or say with princes if it shall go well, |
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By oft predict that I in heaven find; |
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But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, |
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And, constant stars, in them I read such art |
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As truth and beauty shall together thrive, |
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If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; |
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Or else of thee this I prognosticate: |
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Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. |
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| Sonnet 14 |
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I don't base my judgments on the stars, and yet it does seem to me I know astrology. I can't foresee good or bad events—predict plagues, famines, or what a season will be like. Nor can I predict down to the minute what each person's misfortunes are going to be. Nor can I tell princes whether things will go well for them by looking at the heavens. But I can forecast the future by looking in your eyes. I see by those reliable guides that truth and beauty will thrive if you would only pass your attributes on to a child. Otherwise, this is what I predict: When you die, truth and beauty will die with you. |
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