Love seeketh not itself to please
Nor for itself hath any care.
But for another gives its ease
And makes a Heaven in Hell's despair.
So sang a little clod of clay
Trodden with the cattles' feet
When a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres mete:
Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's lost of ease,
And makes a Hell in Heaven's despite!
(Typed from memory, please forgive any errors.)