You will be the death of me...

Sonnet 141
William Shakespeare


In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted:
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee.
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be;

Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That (s)he that makes me sin, awards me pain.


¿No entendiste? "Traducción" aquí.