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LOVE IS A SICKNESS
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Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that most with cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it,more it dies;
If not enjoyed,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 enjoyed,it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!
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