Shakespeare, William: CXLVII. Sonet (CXLVII. Sonnet in Czech)

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which dost 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 madman's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed;

   For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
   Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Jak horečka má láska, prahnoucí
po prodloužení vlastní choroby,
krmí svou slabost, věčně slábnoucí,
jen pachuť neduživou zásobí.

Rozum, této mé lásky Lektvarník,
zlostí, že recepisy mrhám, štván,
opustil mne, a já teď, nešťastník,
žadoním smrt, kýž Lék je zakázán.

Není mi léku, Rozum nedbá již,
neklid můj v blouznění se obrací;
úvahou, slovy, šílenosti blíž,
scestně pak pravda pryč se vytrácí;

    Zatímco já za světlici tě měl,
    ty patříš noci, temnu, do pekel.