`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.'