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 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!
About the poet |
Samuel Daniel |
By the same poet |
Ulysses and the Siren |
Beauty, Time, and Love |
Related books |
Samuel Daniel at amazon.co.uk |
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