B'
��WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
161 (vit)
!EING your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire ? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for yon, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu ; Nor dare I question 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.
162 (viii)
THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after Sunset fadeth in the West, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of hLs youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
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