O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy pow’r
Dost hold time’s fickly glass, his sickle hour,
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering, as they 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 minute 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.
William Shakespeare