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Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting; And, Jove hath made it of a kind, Not well, not full, nor fasting.
Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh ho !
My Love in her attire doth show her wit.
It doth so well become her : For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer. No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on : But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.
i THE HEADACHE.
My head doth ache. O Sappho, take
Thy fillet And bind the pain, Or bring some bane
To kill it.
But less that part Than my poor heart
Now is sick: One kiss from thee Will counsel be