Love is a sickness full of woes,
   All remedies refusing;
plant that with most cutting grows,
   Most barren with best using.
      Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighting cries,

Love is a torment of the mind,
   tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
   Not well, not full, nor fasting.
      Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,