LOVE IS A SICKNESS
(From "Hymen's Triumph", Act I) Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)

Love is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing:
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies,
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey 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 enjoyd, it sighing cries,
Hey ho.

Text of “There is Sweet Music Here"

Excerpted from CHORIC SONG OF THE LOTUS EATERS
Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass,
Music that gentler on the spirit lies,

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies...

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?

Let us alone.

Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone.

What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

Music that gentler on the spirit lies,

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
There is sweet music here.