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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 sang 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 It's delight:
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.