The clod and the pebble
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 sung 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 its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.
