IX. Love, being blind, hath wrought me damage sore

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

LOVE, being blind, hath wrought me damage sore;

Thou, blind in this my loving, evil wast;

Nor would I see the snare, being blind far more,

Wherein myself, I did entangle fast.

Yet hath this blindness harm done unto none

But unto Beauty’s buzzard, me alone.

When blinded Boy did catch my harmless heart;

Thou didst not see the net so intricate

Which bound me (being blind, blind as Thou art!)

To be a thrall in this most wretched state.

So that, alone to work my misery,

LOVE blind is; blind wert Thou; and blinder, I.