To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,Old time is still a-flyingAnd this same flower that smiles todayTomorrow 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 forever tarry.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.