LO, quhat 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.