“Blind Love, to this hour,” from Sir Martin Marr-All (after Voiture)

BLIND Love, to this hour,

Had never like me, a Slave under his Pow’r.

Then blest be the Dart

That he threw at my heart,

For nothing can prove

A joy so great as to be wounded with love.

My Days and my Nights

Are fill’d to the purpose with sorrows and frights;

From my heart still I sigh,

And my Eyes are ne’r dry,

So that, Cupid be prais’d.

I am to the top of Love’s happiness rais’d.

My Soul’s all on fire

So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire,

Such a pretty soft pain,

That it tickles each vein,

’Tis the dream of a smart,

Which makes me breathe short when it beats at my heart.

Sometimes in a Pet,

When I am despis’d, I my freedom would get;

But straight a sweet smile

Does my anger beguile,

And my heart does recall,

Then the more I do struggle the lower I fall.

Heaven does not impart

Such a grace as to love unto ev’ry one’s heart;

For many may wish

To be wounded, and miss.

Then blest be loves Fire,

And more blest her Eyes that first taught me desire.