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 agèd 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.