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.