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LVIII.
That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I
should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or
at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being
your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me
suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd absence of
your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide
each cheque,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be
where you list, your charter is so strong
That you
yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to
you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing
crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
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