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 chang’d above,
She likes not there.
As she did here,
  Thy love.
Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
  No more.

Published in Hesperides

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