Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Doft thou defire my flumbers should be broken,
While fhadows like to thee do mock my fight?
Is it thy spirit that thou fend'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out fhames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenour 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 fake:
For thee watch I whilft thou doft wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.