My love is as a fever, longing still
1
For 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,
5
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,
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And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At randon from the truth vainly expressed:
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
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Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.