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