Thomas Carew(1598?—1639?)

Ask Me No More

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 whither doth haste

The nightingale when May is past;

For in your sweet dividing throat

She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no 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.