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Ben Jonson

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men 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 beauty see;

And in short measures, life may perfect be.