- But wherefore do not you a mightier way
- Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
- And fortify yourself in your decay
- With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
- Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
- And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
- With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
- Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
- So should the lines of life that life repair,
- Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,
- Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
- Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
- To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
- And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.