My love is as a fever, longing still

Sonnet 147

My love is as a fever, longing still

«William Shakespeare»

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.