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It was the lark, the herald of the morn; no nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
O god, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, as one dead in the bottom of the tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next to go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage! You tallow-face!
Fie, fie! What, are you mad?
Good father, I beseech you on my knees, hear me with patience but to speak a word.
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