The last sonnet in the fair youth series! Can we call it a sonnet if it doesn't have 14 lines? Our story comes to its conclusion.Sonnet 126O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powerDost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;Who hast by waning grown, and therein showestThy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skillMay 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 delayed) answered must be,And her quietus is to render thee.   (                                           )   (                                            )

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