Samuel Daniel

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 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!