But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time,
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessèd 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 your self in eyes of men.
   To give away your self keeps your self still,
   And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.

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