The Sonnets, by William Shakespeare


16: But wherefore do not you a mightier way

  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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