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.