My love is a fever, burning 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 now desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did accept.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madman’s are,
At randon from the truth vainly expressed:
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art black as hell, and dark as night.

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