140. To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rose-buds 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 worstTimes, 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.