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.