"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 neerer 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.