But wherefore do not you a mightier waie
Make warre vppon this bloudie tirant time?
And fortifie your selfe in your decay
With meanes more blessed then my barren rime?
Now stand you on the top of happie houres,
And many maiden gardens yet vnset,
Much liker then your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repaire,
Neither in inward worth nor outward faire
Can make you liue your selfe in eies of men:
To giue away your selfe, keeps your selfe still,
And you must liue drawne by your owne sweet skill.
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.