After sonnet CXXVI

O THOU, remote control, who with thy buttons,
Hast slyly spayed us all, and made us gluttons,
Who leaves us straining, lone, and thereby show'st
All others withering as thy power grow'st;
If Ratings, sovereign mistress over fate,
As thou art waning, still will make thee great,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May mind disgrace and wretched fitness kill.
Don't fear us, O thou pinion of our pleasure!
You may detain, and always keep, our leisure:
Your audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And your quietus is to render me.