To His Lady

ASK me no more where Jove bestows,

When June is past, the fading rose;

For in your beauties' orient deep,

These flow'rs, 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.