A Song.

ASke me no more where Iove bestowes,
When Iune is past the fading rose:
For in your beauties orient deepe,
These flowers as in their causes, sleepe.

Aske me no more whether doth stray,
The golden Atomes of the day:
For in pure love heaven did prepare,
Those powders to inrich your haire.

Aske me no more whether doth hast▪
The Nightingale when May is past:
For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters and keepes warme her note,

Aske me no more where those starres light,
That downewards fall in dead of night:
For in your eyes they sit and there,
Fixed become as in their sphere.

Aske me no more if East or West,
The Phenix builds her spicy nest:
For vnto you at last shee flies,
And in your fragrant bosome dyes.