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Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale and not the lark.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale. I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Your mother is coming to your chamber.
Then window, let day in and let life out.
Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.
I will omit no opportunity that may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou lookest pale.
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