Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.
Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.
The wise are above books.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.