Keine Wegspur, nichts zu sehen

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurses the disease
Feeding on that which does preserve the ill
Uncertain sickly appetite to please
My reason, the physician to my love
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Has 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 discours as madmen’s are
At random from the truth vainly xpressed
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night