Classic Poem

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 enjoy'd, 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 enjoy'd, it sighing cries--
   Heigh ho!