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!