Pluck the day, or the lute,
Whichever is at hand;
Gather rosebuds and daisies
While it's May;
Being good, little virgin,
Earns you nothing but decay,
And there's ample time for that
In the endless aisles of night
That divide the numbered days.
Wrestle bulls by their horns,
And please your comely neighbor;
Do not hesitate to act
On a hint of Cupid's favor.
If the boudoir door is locked,
Then unlatch and raise a window,
Let the trellis serve as ladder,
So that Love becomes your savior.
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