That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O! let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison’d 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 privilage 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.
In plain English
The speaker prays he'll never be so presumptuous as to question or control how the fair youth spends his time. He's accepted his role as a devoted servant, bound to the youth's schedule and moods, with no right to demand an account of his hours.
Let the speaker endure this imprisonment—the pain of separation when the youth is away—and accept every rebuke without complaint or accusation. The youth has complete freedom; he can do whatever he wishes, and even forgive himself for any wrong he commits.
The speaker will wait, no matter how torturous that waiting becomes. He won't blame the youth's pleasures, whether they seem good or bad to anyone else. Patience and silence are his only choice.
