Three Aprill perfumes in three hot Iunes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are greene.
Ah yet doth beautie like a Dyall hand,
Steale from his figure, and no place perceiv'd;
So your sweete hew, which me thinkes still doth stand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceaved.
  For feare of which, heare this thou age unbred,
  Ere you were borne was beatties summer dead.
Let not my love be cal'd Idolatrie,
Nor my beloved as an Idoll show,
Since all alike my songs and prayses be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to day, to morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence,
Therefore my verse to constancie confin'de,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Faire, kinde, and true, is all my argument,
Faire, kinde and true, varrying to other words,
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three theames in one, which wondrous scope affords.
  Faire, kinde, and true, have often liv'd alone.
  Which three till now, never kept seate in one.
When in the Chronicle of wasted time,
I see discriptions of the fairest wights,
And beautie making beautifull old rime,
In praise of Ladies dead, and lovely Knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauties best,
Of hand, of foote, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique Pen would have exprest,
Even such a beautie as you master now.
So all their prayses are but prophesies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring,

And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not still enough your worth to sing:
  For we which now behold these present dayes,
  Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

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