The Noble Nature

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 sear.
Alily of a day Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that nightIt was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions wejust beauties see ;
Andin short measures life may perfect be.