CAMELOT FANTASIES

Sonnet 147


 by William Shakespeare


 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,
 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 expressed,
        For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
        Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night.