LVII. Being your flave, what should I do but tend Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour When you have bid your fervant once adieu; Nor dare I queftion with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. LVIII. That god forbid that made me first your slave, The imprison'd absence of your liberty; And patience, tame to fufferance, bide each check, Be where you lift, your charter is so strong I am to wait, though waiting fo be hell, LIX. If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amifs The second burthen of a former child! O, that record could with a backward look, That I might see what the old world could fay O, fure I am, the wits of former days To fubjects worse have given admiring praise. LX. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled fhore, So do our minutes haften to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In Tequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. And nothing ftands but for his scythe to mow: LXI. Is it thy will thy image fhould keep open To find out fhames and idle hours in me, O, no! thy love, though much, is not fo great: To play the watchman ever for thy fake: For thee watch I whilst thou doft wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near. |