• 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.
  • 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.