print/save print/save view   Act I, Scene 126     • Shakespeare.
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; 1755     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! 1760     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.     ( )     ( ) 1765