‘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.’