Sonnet LXXX.

October 31, 2011 at 6:45 pm (Uncategorized)


O! how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wracked, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this, my love was my decay.

Your love was not your decay, fool, it was your stupidity.

In short, you and your obdurateness are your own foe.

And how many fools in love have been their own foe, Shakespeare? Their love is actually madness; it is something, which of an urgency that is hard to comprehend these days, needs to be classified in the medical list of psychiatric illnesses.

Is another human worth so much rife, strife, tears and guns? ‘I shall die if you don’t love me back’, ‘I shall cut my wrists and drown my kitties if you do not return my gaze’, and all such phrases that are used by ‘love’s’ victims that resemble the ravings of someone afflicted with dementia, make me think otherwise.

This is not love, pet, it is ‘a psychiatric illness that needs doctoring’.

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