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.