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.