217 Comfort to a Youth That Had Lost His Love
What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
Of saints?
In endless mirth,
She thinks not on
What’s said or done
In earth:
She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears;
Nor does she mind,
Or think on’t now,
That ever thou
Wast kind:—
But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.
—Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
No more.