The Noble Nature
It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, Three hundred years or more, Not a soul could ever see.
Who sweeps a room, as for a flock, To have it there, He is greater, who doth not know
To care for things out of door, And night and day doth ever chant and score.
To be, first she pressed on, In but the best of matter, Is worth all else we cannot press on.
For nature, mind and heart are one, And what is nothing can be done.
- Ben Jonson