‘Love seeketh not itself to please,     Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease,     And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’

So sung a little clod of clay,     Trodden with the cattle’s feet, But a pebble of the brook     Warbled out these metres meet:

‘Love seeketh only Self to please,     To bind another to its delight, Joys in another’s loss of ease,     And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.’