Poem by William Shakespeare

Sonnet 147. My love is as a fever longing still

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 mad men'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.

1. The Church at Stratford
2. Anne Hathaway
3. From the Rape of Lucrece
4. How Like A Winter Hath My Absence Been
5. When That I Was And A Little Tiny Boy

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