|
| SONNET 16 |
| 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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