Love is a
sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
All remedies refusing;
A plant that
with most cutting grows,
Most barren
with best using.
More we
enjoy it, more it dies;
If not
enjoyed, it sighting cries.
Love is a
torment of the mind,
A tempest
everlasting;
And Jove
hath made it of a kind
Not well,
not full, nor fasting.
More we
enjoy it, more it dies;
If not
enjoyed, it sighing cries.
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