Lyrics Cleo Laine - Shakespeare Sonnet 147
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The lyrics of the song are provided for your reference Cleo Laine - Shakespeare Sonnet 147, and also a translation of a song with a video or clip.
Любовь - недуг. Моя душа больна
Томительной, неутолимой жаждой.
Того же яда требует она,
Который отравил ее однажды.
Мой разум-врач любовь мою лечил.
Она отвергла травы и коренья,
И бедный лекарь выбился из сил
И нас покинул, потеряв терпенье.
Отныне мой недуг неизлечим.
Душа ни в чем покоя не находит.
Покинутые разумом моим,
И чувства и слова по воле бродят.
И долго мне, лишенному ума,
Казался раем ад, а светом - тьма!
Перевод С.Маршака
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.
Томительной, неутолимой жаждой.
Того же яда требует она,
Который отравил ее однажды.
Мой разум-врач любовь мою лечил.
Она отвергла травы и коренья,
И бедный лекарь выбился из сил
И нас покинул, потеряв терпенье.
Отныне мой недуг неизлечим.
Душа ни в чем покоя не находит.
Покинутые разумом моим,
И чувства и слова по воле бродят.
И долго мне, лишенному ума,
Казался раем ад, а светом - тьма!
Перевод С.Маршака
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.
Love is a disease. My soul is sick
Languid, insatiable thirst.
It requires the same poison
Who poisoned her once.
My mind-doctor treated 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 does not find rest in anything.
Abandoned by my mind,
And feelings and words roam by the will.
And for a long time to me, devoid of mind,
He seemed to be paradise, and light - darkness!
Translation by S. Marshak
My love is as a Fever, Longing Still
For that Which Longer Nurseth The Disease,
Feeding on that Which Doth Preserv the Ill,
The Uncertain Sickly Appetite to Please.
My Reason, The Physician to My Love,
Angry that hisscriptions are not kept,
Hath Left Me, and I Desperate now Approve
Desire is Death, Which Physic Vid Except.
PAST CURE I am, Now Reason Is Past Care,
And Frantic-Mad with Evermore Unrest;
My Thumbs and My Discourse as Madmen's Are,
At Random from the Truth Vainly Express'd;
For I have sworn the Fair and ThumbHt the Bright,
Who Art as Black As Hell, As Dark AS Night.
Languid, insatiable thirst.
It requires the same poison
Who poisoned her once.
My mind-doctor treated 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 does not find rest in anything.
Abandoned by my mind,
And feelings and words roam by the will.
And for a long time to me, devoid of mind,
He seemed to be paradise, and light - darkness!
Translation by S. Marshak
My love is as a Fever, Longing Still
For that Which Longer Nurseth The Disease,
Feeding on that Which Doth Preserv the Ill,
The Uncertain Sickly Appetite to Please.
My Reason, The Physician to My Love,
Angry that hisscriptions are not kept,
Hath Left Me, and I Desperate now Approve
Desire is Death, Which Physic Vid Except.
PAST CURE I am, Now Reason Is Past Care,
And Frantic-Mad with Evermore Unrest;
My Thumbs and My Discourse as Madmen's Are,
At Random from the Truth Vainly Express'd;
For I have sworn the Fair and ThumbHt the Bright,
Who Art as Black As Hell, As Dark AS Night.