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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CLOUDS: THE CLOUD CHORUS by ARISTOPHANES WHITE HEAD by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN THE STORM by ANNA A. ARMBRUSTER SCARABAEUS SISYPHUS by MATHILDE BLIND A YEOMAN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND PROPOSING A CORRECTION IN PASSAGE FROM HORACE by JOHN BYROM BALLAD TO THE TUNE - 'BUT I FANCY LOVELY NANCY' by PATRICK CAREY |