Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 
Old time is still a-flying: 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 
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.