What then is love, sings Coridon,
Since Phillida 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, heigh ho, chill love no more,
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill 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 flourished quickly dies.
It is a self-fed, dying hope,
A promised bliss, a salveless sore,
An aimless mark, an erring scope.
My daily note shall be, therefore:
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more,
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill 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 leads 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, heigh ho, chill love no more,
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more.

Alas for me for that my love is dead!
Sunk fathom-deep, and may not rise again;
Self-murdered, vanished, fled beyond recall,
And this is all my pain.

'Tis not that she I loved is gone from me,
She lives and grows more lovely day by day;
Not Death could kill my love, but though she lives,
My love has died away.

Nor was it that a form or face more fair
Forswore my troth, for so my love had proved
Eye-deep alone, not rooted in the soul;
And 'twas not thus I loved.

Nor that by too long dalliance with delight
And recompense of love, my love had grown
Surfeit with sweets, like some tired bee that flags
'Mid roses over-blown.

None of these slew my love, but some cold wind,
Some chill of doubt, some shadowy dissidence.
Born out of too great concord, did o'ercloud
Love's subtle inner sense.

So one sweet changeless chord, too long sustained,
Falls at its close into a lower tone:
So the swift train, sped on the long, straight way,
Sways, and is overthrown.

For difference is the soul of life and love,
And not the barren oneness weak souls prize:
Rest springs from strife, and dissonant chords beget
Divinest harmonies.