Here A Pretty Baby Lies

Gather Ye Rose-buds While Ye May, Old Time Is Still A Flying: And This Same Flower That Smiles To Day, Tomorrow Will Be Dying.

Learn This Of Me, Where'er Thy Lot Doth Fall, Short Lot, Or Not, To Be Content With All.

Oft Have I Heard Both Youths And Virgins Say, Birds Chuse Their Mates And Couple Too This Day: But By Their Flight I Never Can Devine When I Shall Couple With My Valentine.

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

When Words We Want, Love Teacheth To Indite; And What We Blush To Speak, She Bids Us Write.