Shakespeare’s speaker calls Love a blind fool for corrupting his sight. He knows what beauty looks like, yet his eyes insist the worst is the best. The imagery is jarring: his gaze is anchored in a bay where all men ride — the beloved is a common harbor, not a private retreat. Though his heart understands this, Love has used his eyes’ falsehood to hook his judgement, forcing him to dress a foul face in fair truth.
The voice brims with self-disgust; he is no innocent, but a furious participant in his own delusion. The mood is bitter and trapped, a mind split between clear knowledge and helpless desire. There is no comfort, only the sting of knowing you’ve willingly swallowed a lie. The couplet seals the surrender: heart and eyes have finally erred, leaving him wholly given over to the ‘false plague’ — a self-inflicted infection he cannot shake.