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, [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 expressed:

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.