Sonnet 126
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 delayed) answered must be,And her quietus is to render thee.