217. Comfort to a Youth That Had Lost His Love
What needs complaints,When she a placeHas with the raceOf saints?In endless mirth,She thinks not onWhat’s said or doneIn earth:She sees no tears,Or any toneOf thy deep groanShe hears;Nor does she mind,Or think on’t now,That ever thouWast kind:—But changed above,She likes not there,As she did here,Thy love.—Forbear, therefore,And lull asleepThy woes, and weepNo more.