Now what is love, I pray thee tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That rolls all into heaven or hell:
And this is love, a I hear tell.
Yet what is love, I pray thee say?
It is a work on holy day.
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play:
And this is love, as I hear say.
Yet what is love, I pray thee sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain.
It is a toothache, or like pain:
It is a game where none doth gain;
The lass saith No, and would full fain:
And this is love, as I hear sain.
Yet what is love, I pray thee show?
A thing that creeps, it cannot go;
A prize that passeth to and fro;
A thing for one, a thing for mo,
And he that’s proves must find it so;
And this is love, sweet friend, I trow.
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