Sonnet 148

My love is as a feaver longing still,

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

Th'uncertaine sicklie appetite to please:

My reason, the Phisition to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept

Hath left me, and I desperate now approove,

Desire is death, which Phisick did accept,

Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,

And frantick madde with ever-more unrest,

My thoughts and my discourst as mad mens are,

At random from the truth vainely exprest,

For I have sworne thee faire, and thought thee bright,

Who are as black as hell, as darke as night.