A 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 doth 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, 
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.

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