MY love is as a fever longing still, 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, 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, And frantic mad with ever-more unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly express'd.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
