Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing,

A plant that with most cutting grows,

Most barren with best using.

Why so?

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 enjiyed it singhing cries.

Hey ho.