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 nought
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.
In plain English
I'm your servant, so what else would I do but wait on you? I have no time that's truly mine—I'm just here until you call. I can't complain about endless hours spent watching the clock for you, and I won't let the pain of missing you feel like real pain when you leave.
I won't even allow myself to wonder jealously where you are or what you're doing. Like a miserable slave, I just sit here thinking of nothing except how happy you must be making whoever's with you right now.
Love makes us such complete fools. Because I belong to you, I'll accept anything you do without blame. Whatever happens, I'll find a way to forgive it.
