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.
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.
Then fly betimes, for only they
Conquer Love that run away.