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