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 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 nor more where those stars light，

    That downwards² fall in dead of night；

    For in your eyes they sit， and there

    Fixéd become， as in their sphere.

    Ask me no more if east or west

    The phoenix³ builds her spicy⁴ nest；

    For unto you at last she flies，

    And in your fragrant⁵ bosom⁶ dies.