#sonnet 147

[detectiveperspectives]

Why is sonnet 147 so anakin and padme coded

[derangedrhythms]

Desire is death,

William Shakespeare, from ‘Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still’

[sealiberty]

oh he was COOKING

[p-isforpoetry]

Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare (read by Jemma Redgrave)

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 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.

Source: thesonnets.tv

[shakespeare-will-world]

Сонет 147 Шекспира на русском читает Николай Обабков. Перевод Маршака. - “ Любовь - недуг. Моя душа больна...”

[nepoznati-poznanik]

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,

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 express'd;

For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

[lookforthelight7]

Sonnet 147

The first two lines I would legitimately consider getting tattooed

[shakespeare-sonnettos]

Sonnet CXLVII

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 desperate now approve

Desire is death, which psychic 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.