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The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels
The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse. In half an hour she promised to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so. Oh, she is lame!
This shall determine that!
Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, kept company with him here
Shalt with him hence!
Bear hence this body and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell, good night.
But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.
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