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 ph?nix builds her spicy nest; 
 For unto you at last she flies, 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies.