Sonnet 16

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time

And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessèd 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.

But why don’t you make your own go against time?

There is a stronger way to fight.

I can only do so much in my poem.

You could make a fortress in your own right.

Now you stand at the top of your prime,

Many gardens awaiting your hand’s touch.

A noble endeavor could claim

The future, creating something truly rich.

Your art, your power, whatever it may be

Can do what time’s ruin and my poetry cannot:

Repair the losses, preserve for posterity

Your beauty, your soul—whatever your lot.

To give yourself away keeps your own self safe.

I can’t make you immortal with just my own life.