Persuasions to Joy a Song

 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 aged 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.

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