Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that most with1 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! Heigh ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of2 a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so? Notes: 1 Original is "with most" 2 Original is "of it"
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