Love Is A Sickness Full of Woes

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 enjoyed, it sighting cries,

Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind

Not well, not full, nor fasting.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,

Heigh ho!