What then is love?

What then is love, sings Corydon,

Since Phyllida is grown so coy?

A flattering glass to gaze upon,

A busy jest, a serious toy,

A flower still budding, never blown,

A scanty dearth in fullest store

Yielding least fruit where most is sown.

My daily note shall be therefore —

Heigh ho, chil love no more.

'Tis like a morning dewy rose

Spread fairly to the sun's arise,

But when his beams he doth disclose

That which then flourish'd quickly dies;

It is a seld-fed dying hope,

A promised bliss, a salveless sore,

An aimless mark, and erring scope.

My daily note shall be therefore, —

Heigh ho, chil love no more.

'Tis like a lamp shining to all,

Whilst in itself it doth decay;

It seems to free whom it doth thrall,

And lead our pathless thoughts astray.

It is the spring of wintered hearts

Parched by the summer's heat before

Faint hope to kindly warmth converts.

My daily note shall be therefore —

Heigh ho, chil love no more.