Lo, what it is to love

Lo, what it is to love !
Lerne ye, that list to prove,
At me I say.
No ways that may
The grownd is greiff remove,
My liff alwaie.
That doeth decaye ;
Lo ! what it is to love.

Ffle alwaye from the snare,
Lerne by me to beware,
Of suche a trayne,
Which doubles payne,
And endles woo and care.
That doth retayne;
Which to refrayne.
Fie alwaye from the snare.

To love and to be wise,
To rage with good admyse,
Now thus now than
Now of now an
Uncerteyn as the dyse ;
There is no man
At ons that can
To love and to be wise.

Suche are the dyvers throws,
Suche, that no man knows
That hath not profd,
And ons have losd :
Suche are the raging woos :
Soner reprofd
Then well remofd,
Suche are the dyvers throws.

Love is a fervent fire
Kendeld by bote desire,
For a short pleasure,
Long displeasur;
Repentaunce is the hire ;
A poure tresoure,
Withoute mesure,
Love is a fervent fire.