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 unsett,
     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 (times pencil or my pupil pen),
     Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
     Can make you  live yourself  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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