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 today,          Tomorrow 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.