The Blind Boy
‘I have no master,’ said the Blind Boy,
My mother, “Dame Venus,” they do call;
Cowled in this hood, she sent me begging
For whate’er in pity may befall.
‘Hard was her visage, me adjuring,—
“Have no fond mercy on the kind!
Here be sharp arrows, bunched in quiver,
Draw close ere striking—thou art blind.”
‘So stand I here, my woes entreating,
In this dark alley, lest the Moon
Point with her sparkling my barbed armoury,
Shine on my silver-laced shoon.
‘Oh, sir, unkind this Dame to me-ward;
Of the salt billow was her birth....
In your sweet charity draw nearer
The saddest rogue on Earth!’