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Love Is a Sickness
by
Hubert Parry
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Love is a sickness full of woes All remedies refusing; A plant that most with 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!
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