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| My love is as a fever longing still, | 1 |
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| For that which longer nurseth the disease; |
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| Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, |
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| The uncertain sickly appetite to please. |
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| My reason, the physician to my love, | 5 |
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| Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, |
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| Hath left me, and I desperate now approve |
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| Desire is death, which physic did except. |
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| Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, |
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| And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; | 10 |
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| My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, |
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| At random from the truth vainly express'd; |
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 For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, |
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| Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. |
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