A Question.
I aske thee whence those ashes were
Which shrine themselves in plaits of haire?
Unknown to me, sure each morne dyes.
A Phoenix for a sacrifice.
I aske whence are those aires that flye
From birds in sweetest harmony?
Unknown to me, but sure the choice
Of accents ecchoed from her voice.
I aske thee whence those active fires
Take light which glide through burnisht aire?
Unknown to me, unlesse there flyes
A flash of lightning from her eyes.
I aske thee whence those ruddy bloomes
Pierce on her cheekes on scarlet gownes?
Unknowne to me? Sure that which flyes
From fading roses, her cheek dyes.