My love is as a fever,
longing still
For that which longer nurseth the
disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the
ill,
The 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 evermore 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.
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