But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Sonnet 16But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self 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 you 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 your self 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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But why don't you take a more effective route to combating the machinations of this dictator, Time? Insure yourself against when your old age better than with my sterile verses?
You're now right at your peak, and loads of girls would be more than happy to have kids with you. They'd be much more like you than your portraits are. That's how Life itself self-perpetuates, self-heals. Neither the wrinkles that come with Time or my own scribblings can keep you alive in the public eye as children would: neither for your personal worth nor your lovely looks.
Giving yourself away will ensure your preservation. You have to create your own posterity, by your own actions [with your wife].