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To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time | Text of the Poem
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, 5 The higher he’s a getting; The sooner will his Race be run, And neerer he’s to Setting. That Age is best, which is the first, When Youth and Blood are warmer; 10 But being spent, the worse, and worst Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, goe marry: For having lost but once your prime, 15 You may for ever tarry.
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