Shakespeare's Sonnet 147

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 approveDesire 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.

My love is like a fever, constantly craving what keeps the sickness going. It feeds on what sustains the illness to satisfy its unstable, unhealthy appetite. My reason, the doctor treating my love, has left me, angry that I have not followed his prescriptions. Now, in desperation, I learn that desire is death—the very thing his treatment forbade. I am beyond a cure now that Reason has stopped caring for me, and I am frantically mad with endless unrest. My thoughts and words are like a madman's, wandering aimlessly, far from the truth. For I have sworn that you were beautiful and thought you radiant, though you are as black as hell, as dark as night.