Sonnet 16

But wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?And fortify yourself in your decayWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?Now stand you on the top of happy hours,And many maiden gardens yet unsetWith 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.
And I'm sorry if you see these succorsas a pain or as something that tuckers.But there's no use in fighting,I've committed to writinga hundred-ten more of these fuckers.