For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' 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 to death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason in past care,
And frantic mad with ever more unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
For I hvae sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
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