Memory
SO shuts the marigold her leavesAt the departure of the sun;So from the honeysuckle sheavesThe 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 hathMade all the summer as one day:Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrathAs night they sleeping pass away.Those happy creatures are, that know not yetThe pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there beSome that with confidence professThe helpful Art of Memory:But could they teach Forgetfulness,I'd learn; and try what further art could doTo make me love her and forget her too.
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