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.
And ruin'd love when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.