My Love Is as a Fever (Sonnet 147)
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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 ever more unrest
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are
At random from the truth vainly expressed
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright
Ooo art has black as hell, as dark as night