Frantic-Mad With Evermore Unrest

Day two brought more of the upsets that some of us love … and some of us hate … prompting me to share this sonnet (Shakespeare’s #147) that speaks to the predicament of the bracket-obsessed … past cure and frantic-mad with evermore unrest! (I think he may have been writing, with great prescience, as a disappointed Clemson or Connecticut or USC or Vandy fan.)

Sonnet #147

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,
At random from the truth vainly express’d;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Anyway, there’s been some shifting about in the standings, as we move to the second round. Don’s moved up a bit, and Cynthia has lost some ground. Mike has consistently remained in the lead, but Brigitte has now caught him! Morgan looks like he is situated to make a run in this next round … so stay tuned!

And, of course, the women get underway today, too … so let the frantic-madness continue … and check out the standings below![TABLE=13]

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4 Responses to Frantic-Mad With Evermore Unrest

  1. O poor, poor Beeg, oh poet sad
    ‘Tis so unfair, the time you’ve had.
    To thine complaint I shall attend
    And hope, thereby, thy day to mend!


  2. BJ Entwisle says:

    O’ Saturday morn, snowy light and bright
    With my steaming coffee to sharpen sight.
    I settle at my humble computer
    To start the engine of the day’s renewal.

    O’ Alice! O’ JordanCornblog! Your verse!
    O’ joyous poetry! My weekend’s nae cursed!

    (PS Why am I not at the top of the third placers? I have made an amazing leap from 5th to 3rd, and 23 is my number after all, my birthdate. I am getting no respect!)


  3. Oh Alice, tho’ thy soul doth bleed
    For teams that tumble hard.
    Our readers surely love to read
    Your words … our Tourney Bard!


  4. Alice says:

    Disappointment, thy name is UConn.
    Battered, embittered,
    Left livid to stew and strew regrets
    I, too, had sworn thee lithe and arrow straight
    But no, oh no–I sit accursed and crushed
    Black as hell, dark as night.


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