Sonnet 147

by


  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 evermore unrest,
  My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
  At random from the truth vainly expressed.
    For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
    Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


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