The poem
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.