| 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| And, for they look’d 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. |