Robert Herrick

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.