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...