The speaker confesses, half-jokingly, that he’s lost his mind. Like anyone else, he puzzles over why he strains so hard to dream up wild metaphors and refuses to follow the well-trodden path of ordinary lovers. His answer is blunt: he’s a lunatic. In madmen, he says, the very thought that tipped the brain into sickness is the one they can’t let go, and that’s exactly what he’s doing—talking idly in a bedlam fit while reason stands apart. It’s been nine years since his wits deserted him, so he begs for tolerance. The final couplet offers a wry flicker of hope: with proper diet and correction, those not too far gone might yet be brought back to their senses. The mood is self-mocking and tenderly rueful, a man smirking at his own obsession while quietly admitting that love has truly unmoored him.
Sonnet IX: As Other Men — Summary
As other men, so I myself do muse Why in this sort I wrest invention so, And why these giddy metaphors I use, Leaving the path the greater part do go. I will resolve you: I am lunatic, And ever this in madmen you shall find, What they last thought of when the brain grew sick In most distraction they keep that in mind. Thus talking idly in this bedlam fit, Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain; "Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit; Bear with me then, though troubled be my brain. With diet and correction men distraught (Not too far past) may to their wits be brought.