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O thou my louely Boy who in thy power,
Doeſt hould times fickle glaſſe,his ſickle,hower:
Who haſt by wayning growne,and therein ſhou’ſt,
Thy louers withering,as thy ſweet ſelfe grow’ſt.
If Nature(ſoueraine miſteres ouer wrack)
As thou goeſt onwards ſtill will plucke thee backe,
She keepes thee to this purpoſe,that her ſkill.
May time diſgrace,and wretched mynuit kill.
Yet feare her O thou minnion of her pleaſure,
She may detaine,but not ſtill keepe her treſure!
Her Audite(though delayd)anſwer’d muſt be,
And her Quietus is to render thee.
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Zie ook het online-facsimile van de oorspronkelijke uitgave (site helaas niet altijd bereikbaar).