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 hes to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
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