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 yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale (III.5.1-5).
Night's candles are burnt out , and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain top (III.5.9-10).
O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou looks pale (III.5.54-55).