Sonnet 126 by William Shakespeare
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st. 4
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. 8
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. 12
