1 O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
2 Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
3 Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
4 Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
5 If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
6 As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
7 She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
8 May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
9 Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure;
10 She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure.
11 Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
12 And her quietus is to render thee.