Poetry Archives

Lo, what it is to love
  Learn ye that list to prove,
By me, I say, that no ways may
  The ground of grief remove,
But still decay both nicht and day:
  Lo, quhat it is to love!

  Love is ane fervent fire
  Kindlit without desire,
Short pleasure, long displeasure,
  Repentance is the hire;
Ane pure tressour without measour;
  Love is ane fervent fire.

  To love and to be wise,
  To rage with good advice;
Now thus, now than, so gois the game,
  Incertain is the dice;
There is no man, I say, that can
  Both love and to be wise.

  Flee always from the snare,
  Learn at me to beware;
It is ane pain, and double trane
  Of endless woe and care;
For to refrain that danger plain,
  Flee always from the snare.