To some few birds kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day:
Which once enjoyd,
cold winters wrath
As night they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
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:
could they teach Forgetfulness,
Id learn; and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget
MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,
Nor Floras pride!
In thee all flowers and roses
Mine only died.
UNDERNEATH this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidneys sister, Pembrokes mother:
ere thou hast slain another
Fair and learnd and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
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