That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
O let me suffer, being at your beck,
Th' imprisoned absence of your liberty;
And patience tame to sufferance bide each check,
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.
(Continuing from Sonnet 57) Whatever god decided to make me your slave, may he never allow me to so much as think about having any control over when you see me, or asking you to account for how you’ve been passing the hours. I’m your slave, after all, and forced to wait until you have time for me. Oh, while I wait for your summons, let me suffer patiently the prison of this lengthy absence from you as you do whatever you want. And let me control my impatience and quietly endure each disappointment without accusing you of hurting me. Go wherever you want—you’re so privileged that you may decide to do whatever you like. You have the right to pardon yourself for any crime you commit. And I have to wait, even if it feels like hell, and not blame you for following your desire, whether it’s for good or bad.