Sleep? What Sleep?

 This week dealt with my self getting to little to no sleep at all ha ha ahh -_-. though very entertaining for most. actually quite tiresome for me ( pun pun pun!!!! ) With props I needed to make Shakespearean love letters for Much Ado About Nothing and since were talking about Shakespeare here, why not use some of his lesser known sonnet's?
 First off , the letters were for towards the end of the play, where Benedick and Beatrice find out how both really feel about each other. So the Sonnets I decided to go with was Sonnet 23 and Sonnet 147 .

Sonnet 23

I decided, was written by Benedick. It reads;

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O'ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.

O let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense 

More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.

  O learn to read what silent love hath writ!

  To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

What is being said through this sonnet, is that, Just as an actor who forget's their lines on stage do to nervousness or a wild beast thrashing around in confusion. So does this author when ever they cross the one they love. Any time they are tongue tied, anytime they act foolish, anytime they're not at all like them selves; it's because when ever they see this individual, they don't know what to do with them selves. And so, do to this infatuation with this other person, they act the way they do. They hope; they pray, that their love will be able to see though all of this, and to see them for who they're truly are. Not the fool they seem to be...
And so I believed; if Benedick would ever right a poem/sonnet about Beatrice, this would be it.

Sonnet 147

I decided would be written by Beatice. It reads;

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 madme’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.

What it being said through this sonnet, is that; The poet believes them self to be like a patient that has a disease that just cant be cured by any doctor, (They are in love) their thoughts and words are that of a person that's not entirely all the way there. and as much as they try to stop them selves from these emotions;these thoughts, they can't. and so they just give in to them, no matter how wrong/sinful they seem to think it might be for them, and because of this they feel that they are doomed to be forever falling into the blackness that is hell with their love beside guiding them there.

Just as the first letter talked about fool in love, this one did too, but in different way that seemed not necessarily depressing, but i guess the darker side of being in love with someone. the rawness, the wrongness, the absolute confusion in why this is happening. The sensuality of it all, Is why I picked this to be the love letter that Beatice would have wrote.