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 Doth 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, Fixed Become As In Their Sphere. Ask Me No More If East Or West The Phnix Builds Her Spicy Nest; For Unto You At Last She Flies, And In Your Fragrant Bosom Dies.