Love is a Sickness

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,
Atempest 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!

Samuel Daniel.

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now and let me dream in truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say: My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Matthew Arnold.