A Song to Celia

Ask me no more where jove bestowes,
When June is past, the fading rose:
For in your beauties orient deep,
These Flowers as in their causes sleep.

Ask me no more whither doe stray
The golden Atomes of the day:
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to inrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth hast
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 starres 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 if East or west,
The phenix builds her spicy nest:
For unto you at last she flyes,
And in your fragrant bosome dies.