Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918/Love is a Sickness
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Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing,
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
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!