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.

Epitaphs

253   In Obitum M. S. X° Maij, 1614

MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,
                 Nor Flora’s pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
                 Mine only died.

254   On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke

UNDERNEATH this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair and learn’d and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.