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 downwards 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 phoenix builds her spicy nest；
For unto you at last she flies，
And in your fragrant bosom dies.