(Continuing form Sonnet 15)
But Wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war 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,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear
your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted
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.