If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish and anon must die; If every sweet and every grace Must fly from that forsaken face; Then,
Celia, let us reap our joys Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys. Or if that golden fleece must grow For ever free from agèd snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; Then fear not,
Celia, to bestow What, still being gather'd, still must grow. Thus either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.
