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 expressed Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prologues now To your serene, and there, you take your place. You may make us suppliant to your wealthy boughs And carry on—Eternity’s face.

— Sonnet 106

• William Shakespeare