Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/191

Rh  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!