What Needs Complaints, When She A Place Has With The Race Of Saints? In Endless Mirth, She Thinks Not On What's Said Or Done In Earth: She Sees No Tears, Or Any Tone Of Thy Deep Groan She Hears; Nor Does She Mind, Or Think On'T Now, That Ever Thou Wast Kind: But Changed Above, She Likes Not There, As She Did Here, Thy Love. Forbear, Therefore, And Lull Asleep Thy Woes, And Weep No More.