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Sonnet 147: My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still

Sonnet 147 describes love as a feverish illness that continues to plague the speaker despite their attempts to cure it through reason. The speaker's love has grown out of control and unreasonable, leaving them in a state of madness and unrest. They acknowledge that the object of their affection is truly as dark and hellish as night.

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235 views2 pages

Sonnet 147: My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still

Sonnet 147 describes love as a feverish illness that continues to plague the speaker despite their attempts to cure it through reason. The speaker's love has grown out of control and unreasonable, leaving them in a state of madness and unrest. They acknowledge that the object of their affection is truly as dark and hellish as night.

Uploaded by

lhyla86
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
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Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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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,
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 mad mens 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.

Sonnet 130: My Mistress Eyes Are Nothing


Like The Sun
My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,

And in some perfumes is there more delight


Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

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