O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle gla**, 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 sk**
May time disgrace and wretched minutes k**.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit (though delay'd) answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
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