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 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 skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Within all tender's, all benign's that are within - all thankfulness, all swaying notions and gentle dispositions of sunlike and of tall, are all for @Valkyrrhic's domes of gracious and beau!<зз
Thousands of thank-you's are for your hands, thousands of adore's are for your benigns!
