| 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 rime? | |
| Now stand you on the top of happy hours, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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. |