LXI
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids1 to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers2 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 pry3, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenure4 of thy jealousy5? 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.