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.