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!