Heigh-ho

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 enjoyed, 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 enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh−ho!