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Poem by Robert Herrick To 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, To-morrow 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 for ever tarry. Robert Herrick Robert Herrick's other poems: 1608 Views |
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