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. THE PROTESTATION No more shall meads be deckt with flowers, Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers, Nor greenest buds on branches spring, Nor warbling birds delight to sing, Nor April violets paint the grove, If I forsake my Celia's love. The fish shall in the ocean burn, And fountains sweet shall bitter turn; The humble oak no flood shall know, When floods shall highest hills o'erflow; Black Lethe shall oblivion leave, If e'er my Celia I deceive. Love shall his bow and shaft lay by, And Venus's doves want wings to fly; The Sun refuse to shew his light, And day shall then be turned to night; And in that night no star appear, If once I leave my Celia dear. Love shall no more inhabit earth, Nor lovers more shall love for worth, Nor joy above the heaven dwell, Nor pain torment poor souls in hell; Grim death no more shall horrid prove, If I e'er leave bright Celia's love. SONG Would you know what's soft? I dare Not bring you to the down, or air, Nor to stars to shew what's bright, Nor to snow to teach you white; Nor, if you would music hear, Call the orbs to take your ear; Nor, to please your sense, bring forth Bruisèd nard, or what's more worth; Or on food were your thoughts placed, Bring you nectar, for a taste: Would you have all these in one, Name my mistress, and 'tis done. THE SPRING Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost Candies the grass or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake or crystal stream; But the warm sun thaws the benumbèd earth, And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo and the bumble-bee. Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring In triumph to the world the youthful Spring: The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, Welcome the coming of the longed-for May. Now all things smile; only my love doth lower; Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power To melt that marble ice which still doth hold Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold. The ox, which lately did for shelter fly Into the stall, doth now securely lie In open fields; and love no more is made By the fireside; but, in the cooler shade, Amyntas now doth with his Cloris sleep Under a sycamore, and all things keep Time with the season--only she doth carry June in her eyes, in her heart January. THE INQUIRY[1] Amongst the myrtles as I walked, Love and my sighs together talked; Tell me (said I in deep distress) Where I may find my shepherdess? Thou fool (said Love), know'st thou not this,-- In everything that's good she is: In yonder tulip go and seek; There thou mayst find her lip, her cheek.