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William Shakespeare (1564–1616).  The Oxford Shakespeare: Poems.  1914.

Sonnet CXLVII.

“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, 
The uncertain sickly appetite to please. 
My reason, the physician to my love,         5
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;  10
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, 
At random from the truth vainly express’d; 
  For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, 
  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 


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