But wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
And fortify your self in your decayWith 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 repairWhich this (Time's pencil) or my pupil penNeither in inward worth nor outward fairCan 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.
