By 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 doth stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
These powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightengale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
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;
And, in your fragrant bosom, dies.