Thomas Carew



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.

Vincent, Arthur, ed. The Poems of Thomas Carew.
London: George Routledge & Sons, Ltd., nd. 21.

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