Ask me no more where Jove bestows
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in you beauties' 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
These 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
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
THOMAS CAREW
