by: William Shakespeare
      UT wherefore do not you a mightier way
      Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
      And fortify yourself in your decay
      With means more bless├Ęd than my barren rime?
      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.