SONG

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows

When June is past the fading rose;

For in your beauty's orient deep

These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, whither do stray

The golden atoms of the day;

For in pure love heaven did prepare

Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste

The nightingale when May is past;

For in your sweet dividing throat

She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light [86]

That downwards fall in dead of night;

For in your eyes they sit and there

Fixèd become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west

The Phœnix builds her spicy nest;

For unto you at last she flies,

And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Thomas Carew