O Love, I complain

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

Whate'er is begun.

An' wer't not for thee,

My glorious passion,

My heart I could fashion

To sternness, as he.

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.