The Tung Mên Chih Shan; narrative, A woman thinks of her lover's residence, and complains that he does not come to her.

1By th’ eastern gate, flat lies the ground,
  And madder there grows on the slope.
Hard by my lover's house is found;
  He keeps away, and mocks my hope. p. 99

2Where chestnuts grow, near th’ eastern gate,
  There stands a row, where is your home.
My heart turns aye to you, its mate,
  But ah! to me you never come!