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 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.