a poem

Being 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 you,
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 naught
Save where you are how happy you make those
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.