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.