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 
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.