Ask me no more, if east or west, The phenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. - Thomas Carew

Stand still, you floods, do not deface That image which you bear: So votaries, from every place, To you shall altars rear.</p>No winds but lovers' sighs blow here, To trouble these glad streams, On which no star from any sphere Did ever dart such beams.

Give me a wench about thirteene,
Already voted to the Queene
Of lust and lovers, whose soft haire,
Fann’d with the breath of gentle aire Or’e spreads her shoulders like a tent,
And is her vaile and ornament:

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires,—
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.