`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.'