A Rondel of Love

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.