To the Virgins, to make much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-dayTo-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 worstTimes 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.