Sonnet CXLVII
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My love is as a fever, longing still | 1
For that which longer nurseth the disease, | 2
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, | 3
The uncertain sickly appetite to please. | 4
My reason, the physician to my love, | 5
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, | 6
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve | 7
Desire is death, which physic did except. | 8
Past cure I am, now reason is past care, | 9
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; | 10
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, | 11
At random from the truth vainly express'd; | 12
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, | 13
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. | 14
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