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.