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But where|fore do | not you | a might|ier way
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Make^war | upon | this blood|y tyr|ant Time?
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And for|tify | yourself | in your | decay
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With means | more bless/ed than | my bar|ren
rhyme?
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Now stand | you on | the top | of hap|py hours,
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And ma|ny maid|en gard|ens, yet | unset,
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With vir|tuous wish | would bear | you liv|ing
flowers,
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Much lik|er than | your paint|ed count|erfeit:
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So* should | the lines | of life | that life |
repair,
,
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Which^this | Time's pen/cil, or | my pup|il pen,
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Neither | in in|ward worth | nor out|ward fair,
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Can make | you live | yourself | in eyes | of
men.
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To give | away | yourself, |*keeps^your/self
still, ??
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T T T
And you | must live,| drawn by your | own sweet
skill.