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 treatment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting
And Jove Hath mad it of a kind
Not well, nor fill nor fasting
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries
Heigh ho!