William Shakespeare. 1564–1616

Sonnet CXLVII.

“My love is as a fever, longing still”

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,    5
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;   10
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.