WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time br I see descriptions of the fairest wights, br And beauty making beautiful old rime br In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights; br Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, br Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, br I see their antique pen would have exprest br Even such a beauty as you master now. br So all their praises are but prophecies br Of this our time, all you prefiguring; br And for they look'd but with divining eyes, br They had not skill enough your worth to sing: br    For we, which now behold these present days, br    Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.