...But none I think do there embrace.        
Now therefore, while the youthful hew        
Sits on thy skin like morning [dew]        
And while thy willing Soul transpires        
At every pore with instant Fires,        
Now let us sport us while we may;        
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,        
Rather at once our Time devour,        
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.        
Let us roll all our Strength, and all        
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:        
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,        
Thorough the Iron gates of Life.        
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun        
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

                -- Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress."