Back перевод пер. С. Маршака, Шекспир, с. 147

Love is the ailment. My soul is ill
With a tedious, unquenchable thirst now.
The same kind of the poison is the need
To her, as she was deadly baned one time.

My mind, as a doctor, tried to cure her,
But she refused from roots and from the herns.
And doctor got out of having force
And went away, losing his patience.

Since time - my ailment is surely incurable,
My soul can't find on the earth the proper rest.
And deserted by my mind, feelings ramble,
As well as words throughout lands.

And for a long time I, devoided of my witness,
Thought, that Eden was hell, and light to darkness - fitted.