Thy love giveth me an ache of head–
a pain in the arse–
a wish ye were dead

Thy love be like unto thorns,
not a rose–
and drink be not enough my
thoughts of thee to close

Thy love upon a time–
’twas all mine eyes could see–
now thinketh I only of how may I flee 

Thy love cuts deeper than long sharp knife–
had only I known this,
before I made ye mine wife