, by William Shakespeare
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
upon this bloody tyrant
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
With many maiden gardens yet unset
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.
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