Thomas Carew

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.