When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all your pre-figuring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing.
For we,which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack the tongues to praise.