(To Virgins, to Make Much of Time)
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
Tommorrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst,
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.