text: 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 enjoyed, it sighting cries,
  Heigh ho!
  
  Love is a torment of the mind,
  A 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,
  Heigh ho!