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.

O thou, my beloved girl, who in her hour

Has held time like a goddess, contained its power,

And has, while passing, flourished

And nourished the bodies she famished—

Know God, who is sovereign over time,

As you begin to live towards dying, will hold you back,

For the purpose of His dream

Is to save what time will lack.

But fear Him, goddess—child of His pleasure—

He will not keep what He finds not treasure.

It takes time, but He must believe you.

To time’s end, He did conceive you.