CXXXVII

    Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold¹, and see not what they see？ They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is take the worst to be. If eyes, corrupt² by over-partial looks, Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment³ of my heart is tied？ Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world's common place？ Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not, To put fair truth upon so foul⁴ a face？ In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd, And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.