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.