Текст песни Cleo Laine - Shakespeare Sonnet 147

Love is a disease. My soul is sick
An agonizing, unquenchable thirst.
She demands the same poison,
Who poisoned her once.
My mind-doctor healed my love.
She rejected herbs and roots
And the poor doctor was exhausted
And he left us, losing patience.
From now on, my ailment is incurable.
The soul finds no rest in anything.
Abandoned by my mind
And feelings and words wander at will.

And for a long time to me, devoid of mind,
Hell seemed like heaven, and darkness seemed like light!

Translated by S. Marshak

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.