Lyrics
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy pow'r
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 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