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.