The Reply.
ASke me no more, whither do stray
The golden atomes of the day;
For in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders, to enrich your haire.
Aske me no more whither doth haste
The nightingal when summer's past;
For in your sweet devided throat
She winters, and keepes warme her noate.
Aske me no more where those starres light
VVhich downewards stoop in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sett; and there
Fixed become, as in their spheare.
Aske me no more where Iove bestowes,
When Iune is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties Orient deep,
All flowers as in their bedds do sleep.