Now therefore, while youthful hew
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with the fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Then languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we can make him run.