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 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 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 Yes, I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright Who art as black as hell, as dark as night