By Robert Herrick
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.
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