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O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powerDost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'stThy 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 skillMay 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 delay'd, answer'd must be, And her quietus is to render thee. |