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!
122
Ulysses and the Siren
Siren. Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,
Possess these shores with me
The winds and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.
Here may we bit and view their toil
That travail in the deep,
And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.
Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attained with ease,
Then would I come and rest me there,
And leave such toils as these.
But here it dwells, and here must I
With danger seek it forth
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.
