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.