Sonnets xvi

 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 exprest 
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, 
 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

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