Song

ASK me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your 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 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 if east or west The phœnix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies!