He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from starlike eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away
Good to the poor, to kindred dear, / To servants kind, to friendship clear, / To nothing but herself severe.
Give me more love or more disdain; / The torrid or the frozen zone.
Here lies a King that ruled, as he thought fit, / The universal monarchy of wit.
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.
Then fly betimes, for only they / Conquer Love that run away.
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, whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare Those, powders to enrich your hair.
Stand still, you floods, do not deface That image which you bear: So votaries, from every place, To you shall altars rear. No winds but lovers' sighs blow here, To trouble these glad streams, On which no star from any sphere Did ever dart such beams.
Ask me no more, if cast or west, The phenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.
The magic of a face.