Sonnet #147

Sonnet CXLVII

by William Shakespeare

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.

Sonnet #147

translation by ModCon Shakespeare

My love for you is a fever, burning me up from the outside-in, and the only thing that eases my pain is to swallow more of your blazing sin.

My Reason has abandoned me in disgust, since I won’t take his logical pill. I’m desperate for more of your infectious love, which won’t help, but just might kill.

I can’t be saved, since all good sense has left me, I’m going crazy and I can’t calm down. My thoughts and words are batshit, but I’m telling the truth right now.

I once swore you were one of the angels who fell; now I see you’re just a bat out of hell.