- O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
- Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his fickle hour;
- Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
- Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st.
- If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
- As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
- She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
- May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
- Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
- She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
- Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
- And her quietus is to render thee.