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 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 yourself in eyes of men.

To give away yourself keeps your self still,

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. TgJYDZSU8WUpPLqzr1m6ThrtSRkcdCNlhj2sTGYLuS/8ySKLyk+FTF+ccBs5QVZK