About Me

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London, Panama
Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. Over-educated (didn't understand most of it), under-travelled (Bournemouth a few times), no SOH and even less imagination. First husband. Various smaller people. Various animals including, it would seem, a parrot. Borderline autistic, sorry, artistic. Internet OCD. I may be slightly deluded but I like it that way :-) e-mail - top secret. Send me an intriguing comment and I might post my email address

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Life After Life by Kate Atkinson

Happy Pi Approximation Day, for it is 22/7.  The americans of course celebrate Pi Approximation day on 14th March [if I thought less of you, Beloved Readers, I would elaborate that 3.14 is a 3 sig fig approximation of pi].  Only the great, the kind, the clever and the mathematical could be born on such a day.  Happy Birthday to all of you!

Last night, in honour of the eve of said Pi Approximation Day, Yours Truly decided to practice the dark art of cookery and made a carrot soup (well, butter soup with a light carrot flavouring tbh), courgettes in a tomato, garlic and onion sauce and salmon with dill.  Sadly, I burnt the soup when reheating it (d'oh) and the salmon turned out to be rotten which also seeped onto the bed of courgettes thus rendering it all inedible.  MrSpy settled for toast (cooked by himself).  Onwards and upwards, eh?  Never marry me for my cooking.  [Ed:  well, that doesn't leave much].

Book Review
A book of alternatives.  Makes you shudder when you think how things might have been, or could yet turn out, or may be currently in a parallel universe.

Chapter 1 The Birth

It is 22 July.  An icy rush of air, a freezing slipstream on the newly exposed skin.  He is, with no warning, outside the inside and the familiar wet, tropical world has suddenly evaporated.  Exposed to the elements.  A prawn peeled, a nut shelled  [Ed:  hey, not everyone can have hair!].

No breath.  All the world come down to this.  One breath.

Little lungs, like dragonfly wings failing to inflate in the foreign atmosphere.  No wind in the strangled pipe.

Panic.  The drowning boy, the falling bird.

The little heart, A helpless little heart beating wildly,  stopped suddenly like a bird dropped from the sky.  A single shot.

Darkness fell.

 Chapter 2   The Battle of Cable Street 

"Oh Ma'am", Bridget cried suddenly, "he's all blue, so he is."

"A boy?"

"The cord's wrapped around his neck.  Oh Jesus Christ and all the saints, he's been strangled, poor wee thing, strangled by the cord."

"We must do something Bridget.  What can we do?"

"Oh, Mrs Holden, ma'am, he's gone.  Dead before he had a chance to live."

No, that cannot be, Mrs Holden said.  She heaved herself into a sitting position on the battlefield of bloodies sheets, red and white, the baby still attached by its lifeline.  Whilst Bridget made mournful noises, Mrs Holden jerked open the drawer of her bedside table and rummaged furiously through its contents.

"Oh, Mrs Holden" Bridget wailed "lie down, there's nothing to be done"

"Shush"  Mrs Holden said and held aloft her trophy - a pair of surgical scissors that gleamed in the lamplight.

"One must be prepared" she muttered.  "quickly, no time to waste"

Snip snip.

Practice makes perfect.  Leonard survived Day 1.

Half a century later, he was cycling along his usual commuting route.

He was dimly aware of a car behind him.  A car driven by a cyclist hating assassin.   There was no escape.  The sound of the crunch of metal, flesh and bones was an ever repeating nightmare for the passerby.

Leonard lay sprawled on the pavement.  He closed his eyes.  He felt as though he had been awake for half a hundred years and more.  He really was so very very tired.  Darkness began to fall;  at first an enemy, but then a friend.

The Spy Who Loved him found out the following day through a small news item on Page 3 of the Evening Standard about a cycling fatality. A helpless little heart beating wildly, a bird shot down with a single shot.   Darkness fell swiftly for her too for there was no hope left for her to cling to.

Chapter 3

Leonard had nearly died at birth.  He had been born with the cord around his neck but his mother had cut it and saved his life.

Half a century later, he was cycling along his usual commute; relaxed yet alert.  He was a confident, competent cyclist.  Some impetus had prompted him, years before, to train as a cycling instructor and to take the advanced cycling course.  Some dread that he could not place.

As he cycled, he was acutely aware of a car behind him.  A car driven by a cyclist hating assassin.  He cleverly swerved to the far edge of the cycle lane as the car brushed past.  When the driver began to reverse for a second attempt, he performed a trick he had practised for years beforehand,  mounting the bonnet like a runway, cycled over and off.

[Ed:  Gosh, perhaps this is really a Prayer for Owen Meany?]

The Spy too felt a shadow move over her that day.  It passed and she breathed a sigh of relief but thankfully she did not know how or why.

Mini London Guide
Travel Photographer of the Year at the Royal Geographical Society    11 July - 17 August.  Another amazing London free night out.  Don't cycle there unless you have an Advanced Cycling Certificate.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

For Desire by Kim Addonizio

Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks the best:
and I want the good wine, the swirl in the crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing  [Fat Controller:  Like true wine tasters, 007.5 may be more of a spitter actually]
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway [Ed:  FGS get that bulb changed, won't you 007.5?]
         and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking.

Having carelessly lost my previous one, I went in search, therefore, of said lover: the one who would yank open the door, not drawing breath to comment on the broken lightbulb, would proceed to throw water over me  etc.

To this end,  I struck up witty conversation with a young man on the 14.32 train from Salisbury to Waterloo.  So much fun was I having that my blocked nose was a mere irritation on which I decided not to focus.   I was on form,  Sweethearts:  I laughed uproariously at my own jokes for hours.  We talked about all sorts as  I fumbled in my bag for a hankie.  Finding one, I stuffed it up my nose to prevent unsightly dribbles.    I thought I did it with some pizzazz and no hint of self consciousness.  I was giving out the vibe of being a woman of the world, a devil-may-care social repartee artiste.

I wanted my potential lover to get down on his knees and tell me just how fucking good I looked.

Instead, he got off at Reading, rather hurriedly I thought.

Soon after Twyford, I realised that I had not after all stuffed my hankie up my nose [Ed:  Thank goodness for that], and had instead stumbled across a tampax in my bag.  Ooops.  Still, the little string came in handy.

My fave ever poem. Nothing more to say.

Another of Kim's poetic offerings has made it on to the list of the greatest 50 love poems ever.  Hear them read aloud at the Southbank.  See, did you think I had forgotten that this blog is now doubling up as a guide to London?

I have for that very reason also taken a picture of the terrace at the Barbican Centre just for you my Dearly Beloveds.  In the sunshine of today.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K Dick

007.5 has a secret double life.  I know that, for I am she.  Cogito, ergo sum.  I have also suspected for some years that Mr 007.5 is an android (not even the latest model with enhanced empathy, either). [Ed:  you need to dial 594 on your mood organ:  pleased acknowledgment of husband's superior wisdom on all matters]

But what threw me completely was discovering that JuniorestSpy has been an enemy recruit over the last year, leading a similar double life.  I have fallen for every false trail, every carefully placed red herring and her winning smile.  I only realised when I saw her yesterday on a Jihadi video from Iraq (or was it Iran? - I am never sure of the difference).

When I first saw the footage, my mind became warped with overtones of bleakness as my soul congealed and I ceased to move, as the instinctive, omnipresent film of great weight, of an almost absolute inertia, settled over me.

Needless to say, I soon snapped out of it as 10 minutes seems a reasonable amount of time to feel hopeless about anything.

Best Beloved, I have now converted JuniorestSpy into a double agent although she is in serious danger for the time being and I am, My Dearheart, officially Not Amused  at her recklessness.  I have to hand it to her, though, she does nothing by halves - she seems to have at least partially been running rings around the group she has infiltrated, and she has them vair vair confused and partially on the run.

Meanwhile, 007.5 has been involved in some world changing code breaking :-)  I may post my proof here later.  Do I get distracted by maths when I am stressed?  Is that normal?  Am I perhaps a Nexus6 without knowing it, implanted with false memories of human activities and feelings?  Would that the margin were big enough to contain my proof.  Seriously.  Brush up on your modulo maths, binomial expansions and prime numbers and I will share it with you soon.

Speaking of normal, SemiJuniorSpy and I went for a drink with the Head of World BeanCounting.   HWBC asked us about "that thing" where you are stuck on a tube train and look round the men and see which ones you would "do it with" and which ones you wouldn't.  SemiJuniorSpy and I both chimed that we have never played this game.  We have led sheltered lives.

However, SemiJuniorSpy volunteered she sometimes turns around and looks after someone who walks past if she likes his smell.  Excellent,  a chip off the old block.  Now and again I have walked deliberately behind someone for a few metres for the simple reason that he smells so lovely and I want to breathe him in.  Not aftershave.  But his own scent.  Or especially enjoyed a run with someone for that heady reason.  Sigh, SemijuniorSpy also said that it is even better if the said male subject is sweaty from exercise and that she likes to hold on to an old t-shirt.  Is it in the genes?


What is it that makes us alive?  Has JuniorestSpy been grabbing life by the throat or has she been throttling her own future?  How bad exactly "is" having a relationship with a Jihadi drug dealing cage fighter* twice your own age before you have even left school?  Should I track down the offending Android and retire it?

* a married Jihadi drug dealing cage fighter from the Bronx

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Still Alice by Lisa Genova

It is nearly the 7th anniversary of this.

What is the point of having a secret blog, read by nobody other than Ukrainians [shy wave to the Ukrainians], if I cannot be frank?  [Ed - but you are Secret Agent Amy, surely?  Who is this Frank?]

That event was a marker in my life, to join other distant markers that stretch back like intermittent, sparsely spaced poles in the marsh over the rear horizon delineating my journey through time and space.  The path is mainly lonely yet elegant scented flowers bloom tall, bright and fragrant over the past 8 miles, before they fade to desert for the present and the future.  I have more of  my life behind me than in front.  Much more.

I went to a coding meeting yesterday, My Best Beloveds, and felt utterly lost.  I lost track of the encryption system, I lost track of the data, I lost track of my mind.  The cognitive fog is worsening.  I need to find activities I can continue with as I deteriorate.  Running may be the best option.

My choices ahead are contracting, diminishing, and I need to settle on how to make the most of the time that is left.  Or not to bother.  One of those two.

I have one more day where I am needed - my youngest JuniorSpy will finish school for ever tomorrow.  I am in one fell swoop then both liberated and unnecessary.   All of those I love will be gone and living happily and independently of me.  As they should.  That is all I can in all conscience want for them.  There will certainly be a pole rising proud above the landscape to mark that day.

Nobody I now see truly knows me.  I don't really care a fig about Eric or Vincent.  [Ed:  and they certainly don't give you 2 seconds thought for they are as imaginary as your spying days].

I will set up a drawer with pills in it, and a note to myself.  But, like Alice, I will no doubt get that wrong.  I am so very tired.   When a woman is tired of London, she is indeed tired of life.

PS I may leave my solution to Fermat's Last Theorem on my final post, pinned to the long white pole, just so that, you know, I can have eternal fame, like Sylvia, only differently.  [Ed:  she did warn you she was losing it].

PPS I will feel better after a run.


Currently being made into a film, I see.  Great book.  Possibly I am Alice.  Only not as clever.  Or as sympatico.  

Monday, June 16, 2014

Think Like A Freak by Steve Levitt

Meanwhile,  I went out with Vincent.   I am road testing (literally, as it happens) potential new handlers.  MI9 have a selection for me.

I may introduce to you, Best Beloveds, the wiles of women.

I first sent out the hook - a general email to 4 or 5 friends mentioning a choice of cycling events,  Ride A or Ride B, as a general group idea.

This was the sort of thing I had in mind.

What?  Well, what other kind of first date would you have me choose?  It will find out whether he has stamina, fitness, courage (you ought to see the drivers in South London to know what I mean) and, most of all, intent.

As predicted, the others - carefully selected - were frightened off by the very distance mentioned. Vincent, however, responded positively to the idea of joining Ride A.

He is, Dear Beloved, quite good looking.  He is quite witty.  He is quite clever.

I needed to apply some filter as to commitment and willingness to be dallied with.   So I emailed back saying I had changed my mind and would be joining Ride B which I say I can quite see is not suitable for Vincent, recommending that he stick with Ride A.  Vincent mails back saying I have talked him into Ride B  ;-)   So far, so good.  We have established ground rules.

Sigh, as mentioned above, Vincent is handsome, witty and clever.  But he is not as handsome, or as witty, or as clever as my Old Controller.  Nor, Dearhearts, do I love him with an aching heart.

Ride B was actually wildly optimistic for me and,  not being that interested in either cycling or Vince,  I was tailing behind after about 4 miles ready to lose the group and ride home alone.  But suddenly, there was Vince, waiting patiently for me.  "I told the others we would do our own ride" he told me happily.

Is this the equivalent of buying me a drink?

So Vincent is sweet and caring, as well as handsome, witty and clever.  Oh did I mention rich and high status?   I must bear in mind that I am only ever marrying again for money.  {Ed:  I would call you a "mercenary young woman", with "no more...character than a canary bird" but for the fact you are not young}.

We cycled far and wide.  Including past  Crossness sewage pumping station. [Ed: you certainly know how to pick romantic dates].   Which Vincent told me confidently was built by Brunel.  Sigh, not that clever then.    --Leonard-- Some people would never have got that wrong.

Along the Thames riverbank, I was regaled with amusing tales of derring-do, sailing the high seas singlehanded, and running the British Economy with but a few trusted colleagues, all the while wondering how a man who can confuse Bazalgette with Brunel can climb to such dizzy heights.  Mind you, I will concede he was right about the Beam Engine so he can just about stay in contention.

Ho hum, some card play with Eric looms tonight.  He too is rich, kind, clever and witty.  But is he gay?

Book Review

Yeup, my kind of book:  logical, straightforward and slightly freakish.  I amy add more to this review later!

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens

What?  Not enough pictures, you cry?  Ok, ok, O Sweetly Adored ones, this post shall contain more.

Nor have I forgotten my London Graveyard promise.

First, a quiz:

Where am I?

This is the spot from where The Mayflower first sailed to America.
It is the longest street in London
It is the site of London's only mortuary that is not beside a hospital.

Any guesses?

Meanwhile, some philosophy as asked to me by a Junior Spy:

“This reminds me, Mother, to ask you a serious question. You are as wise as wise can be (having been brought up by the fairies), and you can tell me this: Is it better to have had a good thing and lost it, or never to have had it?”

Answers on a postcard.

This painting depicts the view from here:

NB the sun is rising not setting if the Temeraire is being towed upriver

I am speaking of Rotherhithe Street, my Best Beloveds.

When people were shoved into the Thames off London Bridge, they often washed up at Rotherhithe and there was a hole through which people hooked up the bodies, hence the mortuary.  Ask Gaffer Hexam if you don't believe me.

The Mayflower sailed from here too.

After a few weeks heading West, it limped back into Plymouth as its sister ship had sprung a leak.  Various of the passengers had decided by then that religious persecution was really not so bad.

And so to graves.  Here lies Christopher Jones who was Cap'n of the Mayflower

Christopher Columbus [Ed:  I think she means Saint Christopher] carried Christ -  the whole of the world and He who made it -  across some dangerous river or other, so this is Christopher Jones carrying a new nation across the Atlantic.

Enough of that.  Now to the good bit.  This is the pub complete with River terrace at the back:

Great cod and chips

You know what, my Dearhearts?  This post was really intended to be about the great Brunel father and son, who built the first ever under-river tunnel also from this spot, and into whose deep ante chamber I travelled last week after 150 years of it being shut up to the world.  I guess that will have to wait.  As will the cocktail at the pop up garden cocktail bar also within 100 yards {aside:  see what I did there?  I changed metres to yards especially for my American readers, attracted to this page by mention of the Mayflower and unable to interpret metric units, bless 'em.}  
I feel a night out coming on:


"And yet I love him. I love him so much, and so dearly, that when I sometimes think my life may be but a weary one, I am proud of it and glad of it. I am proud and glad to suffer something for him, even though it is of no service to him, and he will never know of it or care for it."

PS This trip was part of a mission with my new prototype controller, Eric.  But my heart isn't in it.  I will marry again only for money.

Friday, June 6, 2014

Shakespeare's Sonnets

Greetings, all thou wonderful "A" level students :-)  I hath heard 154 sonnets read aloud, so now expert am I on Shakespeare's sonnets [Ed:  admit it, you drifted off between sonnets 47 and 68].  Weeks of careful study hath been devoted to the analysis below.  Ye findest not its compare in all the furthest reaches of the reticulated electronic cyberspace [Ed:  that'll be the web]

I pride myself on homing in on the central themes and raising lit crit to new heights.

Sonnets 1-17

You are unutterably perfect but will soon age and die.  Therefore hurry up and have children.  You owe it to society.  Stop spilling your seed.  Having two children would be twice as good, and ten children would be ten times so  [aside:  you can't criticise Shakespeare's maths - although you could logically argue for halving both those figures.].

Sonnets 18-24

Lord of my love, you are unutterably gorgeous and I love you.   You will grow old and wrinkled soon,  just like flowers get old and die and the sun rises only to set,  however you will stay young in my sonnets forever.

25-26:  Oh, did I forget to mention that loving you makes me happy?

27-28:  I am not sleeping well as I keep thinking about you.  [007.5 top tip:  count sheep instead]

29:     Your love makes me richer than kings

30:       If I think about past sorrows then I get upset all over again  [007.5 top tip:  don't think about them].

31-32:    I hope I am in your heart.  When I die, read my blog, I mean poems, not for how good they are but to remind you of my love for you.

33-34:    Ooops, now you seem to have gone off me after only one date.  But why did you have to go and do that?

35  Ah well, don't worry about it.  Nobody's perfect

36  I suppose I had better ignore you now in public so I don't shame you when you remember our date.

37  I still get joy from following your deeds.

38  Thanks to you, I am never short of material for my sonnets

39  The good thing about being apart is that it gives me a chance to idolise you in verse

40  Take anything you like from me, including all my love.

41  Good grief, some woman has seduced you!

42  Hmm..I fancied her too.  Since you and I are kind of one, then actually I have slept with her too in a funny way.

43  I see you in my dreams

44  Although you are physically a long way away, in my thoughts you are close.

45  Gosh, letters take so long.  I wish they had invented email already  [um, that last part might be my very own addition, Sweethearts]

46  Not sure if your good looks are in my eye or in my heart.  Probably both.

47  Eye and heart stuff again:  when I look at your picture, it makes me love you;  when I think about loving you, I see you in my mind's eye.

48  I should never have left you alone, vulnerable to being stolen away [All distant secret lovers, take note]

49   I suppose I won't be able to complain when/if you go off me.  I don't own you.

50 -51   My horse plods slowly as I leave you, but will gallop back when I come home  [007.5 incisive comment:  Snort,  easy to say but you are nonetheless going]

52  The good thing about only seeing you occasionally, is that it makes those times even more special.

53  My word, you are handsome.  Did I mention that before?

54  You are even more handsome because you are also a nice bloke.

55   You will  live forever in my sonnets

56  I hope my love is not dwindling through being apart from you.

57-58  I try not to think who you might be with.  I will simply wait, like a slave, upon your pleasure.

59  I wish I could time travel in to the future to see what they think of you when they find you in a book.

60  You will grow old and die, yet live on in my sonnets.

61  I'm so jealous of who you might be with, that it keeps me awake at night.  [Bloomin heck, Will - if you feel like that, why did you ever leave?]

62 I bask in your reflected good looks

63  I am time proofing you in my sonnets

64  I know you will grow old and die.

65   You will live on in my sonnets

66  Life is miserable and I would rather be dead, except I don't want you to be alone.

67-69   Something not quite right here.  I have a whiff of something unpleasant and false from you

70  I am hearing rumours.  I don't want to believe you are not perfect

71  When I die, just forget you ever knew me.

72  Yes, when I die, don't say good things about me as I am worthless.

73  I am going to die soon so it's pretty good of you to love me anyway.

74  Don't grieve me.  The only bit worth anything is my love for you and that will live on in your heart.

75  Not sure whether I more want you to myself, or to show you off to others.  Like a miser with his treasure.

76  Sorry to bang on about the same stuff all the time  [Aha - some self knowledge at last]

77  You can look in the mirror to see yourself growing old

78  You are my poetic inspiration

79  Hey!  Some other poet is writing about you!  Take no notice.

80  Gosh, he might be better than me.  How annoying.

81  When I die, I will be forgotten.  When you die, you will be immortal in my sonnets.  [Will - not sure you got that one right.  One or two people around now have heard of you]

82  You don't need artists and poets to flatter you as you are truly perfect to start with.

83  You are too handsome to be painted and too fair to have poetry capture you so I won't write any poems about you.  [007.5  All self knowledge now gone clearly]

84  You make life difficult for poets as praise only detracts from you as it will never match the truth.  [Methinks Will doth  idolising this chap now - what do you think, Dearest Readers?]

85  Unlike that other poet, I am NOT writing poetry about you as silence is better.

86  When that other bloke started writing poems to you,  I lost my own inspiration

87  You are too good for me so I release you.

88-89  I will fess up to being deeply flawed, as that will make you look better, which is what I want most.  How can I love someone (me) that you hate?

90 Hate me if you like but don't keep me hanging on.  Dump me now and then anything else bad that ever happens to me will seem easy in comparison

91  I glory in your love more than ever I would glory in winning the lottery or being clever or riding well.

92  My life will end when your love ends.   Hmmmm...perhaps you are being unfaithful and I don't know about it?

93  I will keep telling myself that you are faithful, even if I suspect you are not.

94  If something beautiful turns out to be infected, then that is worse than finding infection in something base.

95   I am hearing rumours again!  You should be ashamed of looking so lovely whilst being so wicked

96  You only get away with behaving this way because you are so handsome.

97-99  Spring and Summer seem like winter when we are apart  [Gosh, I can't even remember what Summer is like]

100  I have run out of inspiration but want it back so I can immortalise my lover.

101 Come back Muse!  It's not good enough to say he is already so perfect that he doesn't need poetry

102  Just because I am not writing poems about you doesn't mean I love you less

103  I still have writers block.  It is because you only need look in the mirror to see how handsome you are so don't need me to write about it.

104  It is 3 years since we met but you don't look any older.  Am I fooling myself?

105  I am really not idolising you BUT nobody else is fair and kind and true like you are.   [Will, you might be kidding yourself again]

106   Poets in the past have written about beautiful women and lovely knights but you are beauteous beyond words.  [snort - why the sonnets then?]

107   I will die soon.  After you die, you will live on in this poem

108  Sweet boy, I can't say anything new as my love for you is the same every day and is eternal

109   Oops.  Sorry I have been unfaithful recently.  You are still everything to me, honest

110  Hands up, I have been with another young man but I promise not to do it again.

111  Sorry about my harmful deeds.  I will pay any penance and not hold it against you that you make me

112  I don;t care what anyone else thinks, just what you do.  I know I have behaved vulgarly and scandalously.

113  I see you in every form - in the clouds, the birds, the mountains and the sea

114  Even poisonous nasty things look to me sweet and perfect like you.

115  Look, enough already - nobody is constant, ok?  When I said I couldn't love you more, I lied, as now I do.

116  If you truly loved me, you would keep doing so even though I have changed.  And vice versa.

117  I only went off with other men to test you, so don't hate me.

118  You know how when you have had lots of yummy sweets, sometimes you fancy something plain or different?  Well that's what happened with me - you were the yummy sweets but then I fancied something a little more bitter.  I kind of regret it now.

119  I have cried a lot over this and I realise I have made mistakes.  But if we start afresh, our love will be even better than it was before

120  I know how upset I was when you were unfaithful so I realise how much my little affair must have upset you.  Let's call it evens?

121  If anyone is having fun judging my misdeeds then they should look at their own faults.  All men are bad.

122-124  I don't need to add up how much you love me in writing as it's in my brain.  I will love you longer than the pyramids have been standing, despite death.  Time herself can't dull my love.

125  a weird one stuck in

126  You might be able to put of Time and Nature for a bit, but not for ever.  You WILL grow old and die one day

Then the dark lady section

127-152   Hey, you may be an ugly, smelly and stupid woman but when you say you hate me, I don't half fancy you.

153-4   Some pretentious greek stuff

I need to go for a little lie down now.  That was hard work!


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.