5
O Love, I complain,
Complain of thee often,
Because thou dost soften
My being to pain:
Thou makest me fear
The mind that createth,
That loves not nor hateth
In justice austere;
Who, ere he make one,
With millions toyeth,
And lightly destroyeth
Whatever is begun.
But thee, Love, he made
Lest man should defy him,
Connive and outvie him,
And not be afraid:
Nay, thee, Love, he gave
His terrors to cover,
And turn to a lover
His insolent slave.