When June Is Past, The Fading Rose

  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 phœnix builds her spicy nest;

  For unto you at last she flies,

  And in your fragrant bosom dies.