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Sonnet CXXVI
 
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
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Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
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Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
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Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
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If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
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As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
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She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
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May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
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Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
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She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
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Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
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And her quietus is to render thee.
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