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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. |