Song
 Thomas Carew


 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
 Fixèd 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.