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!