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Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood:
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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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Attempt the end and never stand to doubt; Nothing's so hard, but search will find it out.
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:
The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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