Poetry Tuesday: Love is a Sickness

Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing.
A plant that most with cunning grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, 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 enjoyed, it sighing cries
Heigh-ho!

;o)

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