Shakespeare’s Sonnet 147 falls into the section of sonnets he addressed to a woman. This woman is commonly referred to as the Dark Lady. There are 27 of these sonnets, but, for a class, I focused only on one sonnet amongst the 154 that Shakespeare produced. Sonnet 147 is about a speaker who is very much in love with a woman.
However, his love for the woman is a sickness to him, and he can’t cure himself with reason. The woman has driven him mad, and he can’t stop coming back to her. He says that he has claimed the woman to be a good person when in the company of others, but that it’s a lie. Instead, the woman has dark motives about which we aren’t truly certain from Sonnet 147. Henceforth, I wrote a reply. I really fell in love with the idea of this Dark Woman, somebody who knew her allure and held it with confidence. This woman is somebody who I am not, but somebody who I imagine to be quite striking. I really wanted to capture the essence of her attitude, and use it as an address to the speaker in Shakespeare's sonnet. The following are Shakespeare’s Sonnet 147 and my response.
Sonnet 147
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.
My Response
As black as hell, as dark as night, am I?
One love of lovers, whose loves know no bounds?
Accused and accursed, a walker of night,
The voluptuous woman can be found.
I am she, she is me, we’re not for thee
To own, nor do we care about your woes.
Nor do we nurse your health or liberty,
Or state of mind, as we desire control.
We are disease, but are also the cure
That you request, forgetful of yourself,
Becoming what you didn’t know you were:
Madman, whose longings dark cannot be quelled.
Alas, I never swore me fair or bright,
But a free woman, who makes love by night.
