To His Love

William Shakespeare

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 exprest

Ev'n 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 kill enough your worth to sing:

For we, which now behold these present days,

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.