To the Virgins, To Make much of TimeGather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,tTomorrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,tThe higher he’s a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,tAnd nearer he is to setting.That age is best which is the first,tWhen youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worsttTimes still succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time,tAnd while you may, go marry;For having lost but once your prime,tYou may for ever tarry.
