Sonnet 147
My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease,Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,Th’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 approveDesire 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 madmen'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.