Willia Shakespeare
Whenthe icle of wasted ti
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
Ay akg beautiful old rhy
In praise of dies dead, and lovely knights;
Thenthe bzon of sweet beautys best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Evn such a beauty as you aster now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our ti, all yurg;
And, for they lookd but with divg eyes,
They had not kill enough your worth to sg:
Forbehold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but ck too praise.