Love is a Sickness

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh-ho!

Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, Heigh-ho!