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CVI.
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 skill
enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold
these present days,
Had eyes to wonder, but lack
tongues to praise.
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