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Stay while ye will, or go And leave no scent behind ye: Yet, trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye.

Within my Lucia's cheek, Whose livery ye wear, Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there.

Gather ye rosebuds 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.