To The 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 To-morrow 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 for ever tarry.