A Song

 Ask me no more where Jove then stows,
 When June is past, the dried up rose;
 For in your good looks' good points deep
 These blooms, as in what caused them, sleep.

 Ask me no more where they do stray,
 The small gold bits of the long day;
 For in pure love the skies did snare
 The dusts that make so rich your hair.

 Ask me no more where in such haste
 The night bird goes, when May is past;
 For in your sweet, in two parts, throat
 She rests well, and keeps warm her note.

 Ask me no more where those stars light,
 That fall to ground in dead of night;
 For in your eyes they sit, and there
 Are made as fixed as in their sphere.

 Ask me no more if east or west
 The flame bird builds her spice bark nest;
 For it's to you at last she flies,
 And in your fragrant breast she dies.

                                -- Tom Care.