A Rondel of Love

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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.

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