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CXXVI.
O
thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold
Time's fickle glass, his sickle, 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 delay'd, answer'd must
be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
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