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CXLVII.
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,
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 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.
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