SO shuts the marigold her leaves   At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves   The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds kind Nature hath   Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath   As night they sleeping pass away. Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be   Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory:   But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.