But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
Whith means more blessed then 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.