Love is a sickness full of woes,
  All remedies refusing;
A plant that [with most]1 cutting grows,
  Most barren with best using,
      Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
  If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries --
      Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
  A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made [it of]2 a kind
  Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
      Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
  If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries --
      Heigh ho!

In an harbour1 grene aslepe whereas I lay
The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day:
I dreamèd fast of mirth and play.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Me thought I walkèd still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go,
But when I wakèd it was not so.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is surely pyght2
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and hearte's delight.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Modernized spelling

In an arbour green asleep whereas I lay
The birds sang sweet in the [middis]3 of the day:
I dreamed fast of mirth and play;
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go,
But when I waked it was not so.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Therefore my heart is surely pight 4
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and heart's delight.
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

Original version, Lusty Iuventus of youth he syngeth

In a herber grene a sleep where as I lay, 
The byrdes sang swete in y middes of the day,
I dreamed fast of myrth and play,
In youth is plesure, in youth is pleasure.

Me thought I walked stil to and fro, 
And from her company I could not go,
But when I waked it was not so,
In youth is plesure, in youth is plesure.

Therfore my hart is surely pyght
Of her alone to have a sight.
Which is my joy and hartes delyght,
In youth is plesure, in youth is pleasure. Finis.