The Noble Nature

by Ben Jonson

   It is not growing like a tree
   In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
      A lily of a day
      Is fairer far in May,
   Although it fall and die that night—
   It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

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