William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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,

With vertuous wish would beare your liuing flowers,¹

Much liker then your painted counterfeit:

So should the lines of life that life repaire,

Which this Times pensel or my pupill pen²

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.