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.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 48: How Careful Was I, When I Took My Way
- Sonnet 52: So Am I As The Rich Whose BlessÈD Key
- Sonnet 15:
- Sonnet Cxxii
- Sonnet 70: That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect