A false love
Has your love ever becomes as a fever, as a plague, longing still
For that which the longer nurses this disease,
Feeding on that which does preserve this sweet to sickness ill,
That fosters the uncertain sickly appetite to please.
Your reason, which is the physician to your love,
May be sometimes angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
To neglect you and to leave you desperate without any resolve
Desire can easily drove us insane, to death, which wisdom does not accept.
How past cure you become, entangled, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest is in your painful sleepless chest
Your thoughts and your discourse as those of madmen are,
At random from so far from reality and truth, are vainly expressed;
For I have sworn that you are fair and thoughtful bright,
Why enslave yourself to such black hell, dire dark turbulent as night.
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