In the second bit, he reiterates the first few lines of A Complaint, thereby making it cyclical, a process that, while not never-ending, can be said to repeat itself; dishearteningly, it seems as though he’s saying that love is fickle, and that people fall in and out of it with such ease that the sacredness of it is lost rather quickly. This could be written about both filial and romantic love, as there is no specification made to who it is written for, though, as stated above, historians generally pin the friend as Coleridge, after he met him again after some three years of absence.