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.