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CXXXVII.

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,

Yet what the best is take the worft to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,

Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood haft thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied?
Why should
my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world's common

Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon fo foul a face?

[place?

In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred.

CXXXVIII.

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor❜d youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her falfe-speaking tongue :
On both fides thus is simple truth supprest.
But wherefore fays fhe not she is unjust?
And wherefore fay not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

CXXXIX.

O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue;

Ufe

power with power, and flay me not by art. Tell me thou loveft elsewhere; but in my fight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye afide: What need'ft thou wound with cunning, when thy

might

Is more than my o'erpreff'd defence can bide ?
Let me excuse thee: ah, my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies ;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not fo; but fince I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXL.

Be wife as thou art cruel; do not prefs
My tongue-tied patience with too much difdain;
Left forrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As tefty fick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wrefting world is grown fo bad,
Mad flanderers by mad ears believed be.

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despile,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, defire to be invited

To any fenfual feaft with thee alone:

But

my

five wits nor my five senses can
Diffuade one foolish heart from ferving thee,
Who leaves unfway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's flave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me fin awards me pain.

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