The Bookshelf

Is it thy will thy image should keep open

My 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 thee

So 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 eyes 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.