Gather ye rosebuds while ye
may,
Old Time is still
a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
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.
