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 strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more if east or westThe phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies!