by: William Shakespeare
      OT 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 season's 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.