Shakespeare's Sonnets Translation Sonnet 147
My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desp'rate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic mad with evermore unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, At random from the truth vainly expressed; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
My love is like a fever, still longing
For the thing that makes the disease last longer,
Feeding on the thing that preserves the harm,
To please the fickle, sickly appetite.
My reason, which is the doctor of my love-sickness,
Became angry that his advice was not followed,
And has left me. And I, now desperate, accept that
Desire, which my doctor forbade me, is indeed deadly.
I am past cure, now that reason no longer cares for me,
Frantic and mad with increasing unrest,
My thoughts and my speech are like a madman's,
Wandering between truth and ridiculous expressions;
This is because I swore that you were fair, and thought you were bright,
You who are are black as hell and dark as night.
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