Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;
And this same flow’r, that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heav’n, 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.