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re: sonnets
My love is 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 madman's are,
At randon from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn the fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
- Sonnet 147
Though it is one of the most unsettling Sonnets Shakespeare wrote, it tends
to be one of my favorite because of the truth about some loves it unsettles
within myself. Some people are sick with love in terms of a bacteria - a
few antibiotics and they can get "better", but some of us are sick with love
in terms of a virus - there is no cure and thus our fate is sealed to our
love - even unto death.
Peace - and Grace to the other "Sick" out there
Jarrod
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