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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.

The 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 for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick