Blogging late

Back late from Ann Arbor.  Sonnet 58:

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LVIII

  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 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.

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The volta’s the not at the beginning of the last line.  More tomorrow—