| 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, | 5 |
| 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: | 10 |
| Her audit, though delay’d, answer’d must be, | |
| And her quietus is to render thee. | |