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.