XVI
But wherefore do not you a mightier1 way Make war upon this bloody2 tyrant3, Time? And fortify4 your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden5 gardens, yet unset, With virtuous6 wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit7: 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 yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn8 by your own sweet skill.