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 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.