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Poem	Not from the stars do I my judgement 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 thy self 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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