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 keptHath 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.
