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LXI.
Is
it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy
eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my
slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee
do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st
from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope
and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though
much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine
eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest
defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
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