Act I, Scene 16

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• Shakespeare. But wherefore do not you a mightier way
  Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
  And fortify yourself in your decay
  With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
  Now stand you on the top of happy hours, 215
  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, 220
  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.