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 best
Of hand of foot of lip of eye of brow
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such 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
Had eyes to wonder but lack tongues to praise