Poem 20: Sonnet 147 by 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, whom physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic mad with ever more unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
For I had sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night