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 approve

　　Desire is death，which physic did except.

　　Past cure I am，now reason is past care，

　　And frantic—mad with evermore