Lyrical Poems
217. COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE

Robert Her

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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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