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    But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time, And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessd 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.

    С переводом С. Я. Маршака, А. М. Финкеля, М. Чайковского

    Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.' So should my papers (yellowed with their age) Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed a poet's rage And stretchd metre of an ntique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
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