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  • Title: The Sonnets (Modern)
  • Editor: Michael Best

  • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Michael Best
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Sonnets (Modern)

    118
    Like as to make our appetite more keen
    With eager compounds we our palate urge;
    As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
    1760We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;
    Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
    To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding,
    And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness
    To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
    1765Thus policy in love, t'anticipate
    The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
    And brought to medicine a healthful state
    Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured.
    But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
    1770 Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
    119
    What potions have I drunk of siren tears
    Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
    Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
    1775Still losing when I saw myself to win!
    What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
    Whilst it hath thought itself so blessèd never!
    How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
    In the distraction of this madding fever!
    1780O benefit of ill: now I find true
    That better is by evil still made better,
    And ruined love when it is built anew
    Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
    So I return rebuked to my content,
    1785 And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
    120
    That you were once unkind befriends me now,
    And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
    Needs must I under my transgression bow,
    1790Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
    For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
    As I by yours, you've passed a hell of time,
    And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
    To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
    1795O that our night of woe might have remembered
    My deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,
    And soon to you, as you to me then, tendered
    The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
    But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
    1800 Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.