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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, or 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;
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.
–William Shakespeare, Sonnet XIV