In gearing up for the Steampunk Shakespeare Anthology, I’ve been rereading some of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.
This one particularly touched me twice in my life. First time nearly twenty years ago, and then again recently. Over 400 years, and the words hold true.
These are also relevant to Wednesday’s post on Breakup > Suffering Abuse.
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.
And Drayton’s Sonnet 61, similar theme:
Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and part;
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love’s last breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes;
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.