Sir Walter Raleigh (1554?–1618)

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.

Yet 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 of the play:

And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd 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 vantage while ye may:

And this is Love, as I hear 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.