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Sonnet Cxlvii

Rating: 2.7
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 unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
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COMMENTS
Fabrizio Frosini 07 January 2016
Perhaps as a natural continuation of the renunciation of the previous sonnet, or perhaps independently of it, the poet here reflects on his woeful state.
15 0 Reply
Brian Jani 26 April 2014
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out
0 1 Reply

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