Now What Is Love.

Now what is love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is love, as I hear tell.

Yer what is love, I prithee say?
It is a work on holiday,
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after the play;
And this is love as I hear say.

Yet what is love, good sheperd, sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,
It is a toothache or like pain,
It is a game where none hath gain;
The lass saith no, yet would full fain;
And this is love as I hear sain.

Yet, shepherd what is love, I pray?
It is a yes, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray,
It is a thing will soon away,
Then, nymphs, take advantage while you may;
And this is love, I hear you say.

Yet what is love, good shepherd, show?
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe,
And he that proves shall find it so;
And shepherd, this is love, I trow.

.

The Nymph's Reply To The Shepherd.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures migh me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from fields to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither- soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs-
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.