My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill.
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly express’d;
For I have sworn thee fair anf thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
My love is a fever, still constantly desiring what caused the illness. Despite unrequited love and its pains, I still want you who caused my suffering. Though my reason tells me otherwise, I cannot help but keep loving you. I am hurting; I wish I could listen to my head and stop loving you, but it its already too late - I have fallen too far. I am fighting with myself, because I keep telling myself “you are good, and bright as day. Whereas, you are black as hell, dark as night”.
We’re doing shakespeare sonnets in jackson’s class and writing an essay on it and of course…
I picked the corniest, and saddest poem ever!
I think I did a pretty good job of translating though.
Unrequited love really does suck.
Hope you feel better :)
