The speaker asks the young man why he doesn’t fight Time’s tyranny with a stronger weapon—having children. Right now, he’s in his prime, and many women (“maiden gardens, yet unset”) would eagerly bear his “living flowers,” images far more faithful than any painted portrait. The poet admits his own art is “barren rhyme,” powerless next to the “lines of life” that actually repair decay. Time’s pencil may draw wrinkles and the poet’s “pupil pen” mere words, but neither can make him truly live on. In the closing couplet, the argument turns almost paradoxical: by giving himself away, he keeps himself, and only his own “sweet skill” of creating children can grant him lasting life. The mood is lovingly urgent—almost pleading—as the speaker humbly sets aside poetry’s claims and insists that flesh and blood alone can triumph over death.
Sonnet 16: But wherefore do not you a mightier way — Summary
But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self 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 your self in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.