Sonnet 16


  But wherefore do not you a mightier way
  Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
  And fortify your self 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 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.


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