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Thomas Carew - To His Lady
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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.
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