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 looked but with divining eyes,
They
had not still enough your worth to sing.
For
we, which now behold these present days
Have
eyes to wonder but lack tongues to praise.