When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
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 exprest
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ;
And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not sill enough your worth to sing ;
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
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