- 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 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 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 tongues to praise.