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 in May Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant of flower and light, In small proportions we just beauties see And in short measures, life may perfect be.
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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 in May
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant of flower and light,
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.
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Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine.
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