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.