SONG.
1 Gather the rose-buds, while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
2 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.
3 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.
4 Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, whilst ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.