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.