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Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood:
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If a little labor, little are our gains. Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Times is still a-flying And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.
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And with our broth, and bread, and bits, sir friend, You've fared well : pray make an end ; Two days you've larded here ; a third, ye know, Makes guests and fish smell strong ; pray go
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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.
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