Ben Jonson

The burnt child dreads the fire.

The burnt child dreads the fire.

Pleasure the servant, Virtue looking on.

Pleasure the servant, Virtue looking on.

Follow a shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, read more

Follow a shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,
As some soft chime had stroked the air;
And read more

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,
As some soft chime had stroked the air;
And though the sound had parted thence,
Still left an echo in the sense.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long read more

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 falls and die that night--
It was the plant and flower of Light.