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.
View all
Shakespeare's Sonnets:
