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. A Divine Mistress
2. Secrecy Protested
3. Murdering Beauty
4. To My Inconstant Mistress
5. I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair

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