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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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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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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score Then to that twenty, add a hundred more A thousand to that hundred so kiss on, To make that thousand up a million. Treble that million, and when that is done, Let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun.
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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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If a little labor, little are our gains. Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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