SONG. By Thomas Carew. (1589-1639.)

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 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 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 whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past, For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.