Shakespeare Sonnet 147

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. 4

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. 8

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. 12

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.