Script for Final

*sitting down in the chair across from interviewer*

My love?

*stands up as if dreaming*

It is as a fever.

Longing still for that which longer nurseth the

disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I, desperate, now approve

That desire is death.

Past cure I am,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed:

*sits down back at the desk, but a woman is there instead of the interviewer*

For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell,

as dark as night.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips;

If hairs are wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

*offers a flower to the woman*

And yet, by heaven, I think my love is rare.