al

Sonnet CXLVII (147)

My love is as a fever longing still
for that which longer nurseth the disease.
Feeding on that which does preserve the ill,
the uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, physician to my love,
angry that his prescriptions are not kept
has 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 expressed,
for I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright
who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Also, I miss L.