Love Is A Sickness

Love is a sickness full of woes,    

All remedies refusing;  

A plant that with most cutting grows,    

Most barren with best using.                

Why so?        

More we enjoy it, more it dies;  

If not enjoy'd, 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 enjoy'd, it sighing cries—  

Heigh ho!