Gather ye rose-buds 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 will 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.