CXXVI

    O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle¹ glass, his fickle hour； Who hast by waning² grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering³, as thy sweet self grow'st. If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack⁴, 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 minion⁵ of her pleasure！ She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure： Her audit⁶ （though delayed） answered must be, And her quietus is to render thee.