Poem by Thomas Carew

Persuasions to Joy

A Song

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. 

1. Epitaph for Maria Wentworth
2. Murdering Beauty
3. The Primrose
4. I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair
5. Secrecy Protested

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