The poem
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.