I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be!
George Wither.
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 to-day,