1 Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
2 And yet methinks I have astronomy,
3 But not to tell of good or evil luck,
4 Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
5 Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
6 'Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
7 Or say with princes if it shall go well,
8 By oft predict that I in heaven find:
9 But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
10 And, constant stars, in them I read such art
11 As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
12 If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
13 Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
14 Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
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