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XVI.
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 your 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 yourself still,
And you must live,
drawn by your own sweet skill.
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