  A description of 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. 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 tooth-ache, or like pain; It is a game where none hath gain; The lass saith no, and would full fain: And this is love, as I hear sain. Yet what is love?I pray thee say. It is a yea, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray; It is a thing will soon away; Then take the vantage while you may: And this is love, as I hear say.
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 proves must find it so: And this is love, sweet friend, I trow. -- Sir Walter Ralegh 
