O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,
How can it? O how can love’s eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning love! With tears thou keep’st me blind,
Lest eyes well seeing thy foul faults should find.
Oh, me! What kind of eyes has love put into my head that I don’t see anything accurately? Or if my eyes do see correctly, what’s happened to my judgment to make me wrongly criticize what they see? If the woman I love to look at is beautiful, why does the rest of the world say she’s not? If she’s not, then a person in love doesn’t see as accurately as others. No—how can a lover see right? Oh, how can a lover’s eye work properly when it’s so distressed by staying awake and crying? It’s no wonder then that I’m wrong about what I see; the sun itself doesn’t see anything until the sky is clear. Oh, ingenious love, you keep me blind with tears so I won’t discover my lover’s foul faults, as I would if my eyes worked properly.