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,
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 yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
In plain English
Why aren't you fighting Time in a more powerful way than my poems can manage? You're at your peak right now, with women ready and willing to bear your children—children who'd be far more real and lasting than any portrait or verse I could write.
The only thing that truly defeats time is offspring, because they carry you forward in living form. No painting or poem—not even mine—can preserve you the way a child would. Words just aren't enough.
The paradox is simple: having children means you live on through them. And you're the only one who can make that happen. It's your choice, your gift to yourself.
