My love is a fever, longing still...
Sonnet 147My 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, 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 express'd; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. Buy and Download...Click HERE
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My love’s
like a fever and mistakenly seeks out the very thing that keeps me ill. My
common sense is so angry with me now that, like a doctor whose patient won’t
listen to any advice, he’s walked off in a huff. I’m too far gone to be cured
and my common sense has given up: I’m going mad and babbling. I’ve sworn you
were beautiful and considered you fantastic, when actually you’re hideous and a
dreadful person.