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 express'd Even 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 still 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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