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, Times 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. |
|