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.