To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

    Gather ye rosebuds¹ 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.