Gather ye rosebuds 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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