Her eyes like angels watch them still. 

 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 

 Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 

 All that attempt, with eye or hand, 

 Those sacred cherries to come nigh 

 Till ' Cherry ripe ' themselves do cry. 



THOMAS CAMPION. 



A 



A SONG 



SK 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 do 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 phoenix builds her spicy nest, 

 For unto you at last she flies. 

 And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



CAREW. 



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