To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time | Poem

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time Poem Text

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 neerer 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
Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while ye may, goe marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.