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!