Song
If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If ev'ry sweet and ev'ry 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 gathered still must grow.
Thus, either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
—Thomas Carew
Love Will Find the Way
Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under the floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over the rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter
And soon find out his way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward for his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him
By having him confin'd,
And some do suppose him,
Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close you wall him,
Do the best that you may;
Blind Love, if so ye call him,
Will find out his way.