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.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry; Full and fair ones; come, and buy! If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land or cherry isle, Whose plantations fully show, All the year, where cherries grow.
1. Among thy fancies, tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss?-- 2. I shall resolve ye what it is:
It is a creature, born and bred Between the lips, all cherry red; By love and warm desires 'tis fed; _Chor_.--And makes more soft the bridal bed:
2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies; _Chor_.--And stills the bride too when she cries:
2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies; now here, now there; 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near; _Chor_.--And here, and there, and everywhere.
1. Has it a speaking virtue?--2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say?--2. Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; _Chor_.--And this love's sweetest language is.
1. Has it a body?--2. Aye, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings, _Chor_.--Love honey yields, but never stings.
1 Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay Until the hast'ning day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along!
2 We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew Ne'er to be found again.
1 Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who are but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.