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,
WHAT sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me!
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed--
As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening's weed--