But soft: I hear Some vicious fool draw near, That cries, we dream, and swears there's no such thing... - 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, 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.

The burnt child dreads the fire.

What gentle ghost, besprent with April dew, Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew?