Shakespeare’s Sonnet #147 “My love is as a fever, longing still”
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Reading of Sonnet 147
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The images in the YouTube video are from an original 1609 edition of Shake-speares Sonnets held by the British Library. It is one of only thirteen copies in existence. Images courtesy of the Octavo Corporation.
Modernized Spelling and Punctuation
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.
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.
Simplified Modern English Translation
My love is like a fever, constantly burning
for that which prolongs the disease,
feeding on that which preserves the sickness,
the capricious and lustful desire to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
angry that his instructions are not being followed,
has left me, and I, in despair, now discover that
desire is like death, which cannot be helped by any medicine.
I’m too far gone now to listen to any reason
and frantic-mad with with ever increasing desire,
my thoughts and speech are like a madman,
varying haphazardly from the truth and making no sense;
for I have sworn you fair, and thought you bright
who are as black as hell, as dark as night.
Text from Original 1609 Quarto
Transcription courtesy of University of Virginia Library:
My loue is as a feauer longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease.
Feeding on that which doth preserue the ill,
Th’vncertaine sicklie appetite to please:
My reason the Phisition to my loue,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Hath left me, and I desperate now approoue.
Desire is death, which Phisick did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantick madde with euer-more vnrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad mens are,
At randon from the truth vainely exprest.
For I haue sworne thee faire, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as darke as night.