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| But wherefore do not you a mightier way | 1 |
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| Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? |
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| And fortify your self in your decay |
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| With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? |
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| Now stand you on the top of happy hours, | 5 |
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| And many maiden gardens, yet unset, |
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| With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, |
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| Much liker than your painted counterfeit: |
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| So should the lines of life that life repair, |
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| Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, | 10 |
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| Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, |
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| Can make you live your self in eyes of men. |
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 To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, |
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| And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. |
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