Is it thy will thy image should keep openMy 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 theeSo 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.