A Rondell Of Love

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

Love is ane fervent fire
Kindled without desire:
Short pleasure, lang displeasure,
Repentance is the hire;
Ane pure treasure without measure;
Love is ane fervent fire.

To love and to be wise,
To rage with gud adwyiss,
Now thus, now than, so goes 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 be ware;
It is ane pain, and double train
Of endless woe and care;
For to refrain that danger plain,
Flee always from the snare.

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