| Lyrics: | 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. |
