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
Forever, 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 gathered, still must grow.

Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.