|
| SONNET 126 |
| 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. |
| CXXVII. |
| In the old age black was not counted fair, |
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