Perswasions to enjoy

IF the quick spirits in your eyeNow languish, and anon must die;If every sweet, and every graceMust fly from that forsaken face;Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or if that golden fleece must growForever, free from aged snow;If those bright suns must know no shade,Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;Then fear not, Celia, to bestowWhat, still being gathered, still must grow.Thus, either Time his sickle bringsIn vain, or else in vain his wings.