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.