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 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.
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"Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,..."
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