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JULIET: 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: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. RoMEo: It was the lark, the herald of the Imorn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. JULIET: Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I: It is some meteor, that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua: Therefore stay yet,_thou need'st not be gone. ROMEo: Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;

Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go;-
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.-
How is't, my soull let's talk, it is not day.
JULIET: It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes:
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence, with hunts-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
RoMEo: More light and light, more dark and
dark our woes.

JULIET: Then, window, let day in, and let life

RoMEo: Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll

descend. (Descends.) JULIET: Art thou gone so! my love! my lord! my friend! I must hear from thee every day i' the hour, For in a minute there are many days: Oh! by this count I shall be much in years, Ere I again behold my Romeo.

RoMEo: Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. JULIET: O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? ROMEO: I doubt it not; and all these woes shall Serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.


Oh, but to fade, and live we know not where,
To be a cold obstruction and to groan!
This sensible, warm woman to become
A prudish clod; and the delighted spirit
To live and die alone, or to reside
With married sisters, and to have the care
Of half a dozen children, not your own;
And driven, for no one wants you,
Round about the pendant world; or worse than
WOrSe -
Of those that disappointment and pure spite
Have driven to madness: 'Tis too horrible!
The weariest and most troubled married life
That age, ache, penury, or jealousy
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To being an old maid.


There was an old man who lived in a wood, As you may plainly see;

He said he could do as much work in a day As his wife could do in three."

“With all my heart,” the old woman said, “If that you will allow,

To-morrow you’ll stay at home in my stead, And I’ll go drive the plough;”

“But you must milk the Tidy cow,
For fear she may go dry;

And you must feed the little pigs
That are within the sty;

“And you must mind the speckled hen,
For fear she lay away;

And you must reel the spool of yarn,
That I spun yesterday.”

The old woman took a whip in her hand,
And went to drive the plough;

The old man took a pail in his hand,
And went to milk the cow;

But Tidy hinched and Tidy flinched,
And Tidy broke his nose,

And Tidy gave him such a blow
That the blood ran down to his toes.

“High! Tidy! ho! Tidy! high!
Tidy! do stand still!

If ever I milk you, Tidy, again,
'Twill be so against my will.”

He went to feed the little pigs,
That were within the sty;

He hit his head against the beam,
And he made the blood to fly.

He went to mind the speckled hen,
For fear she'd lay astray,

And he forgot the spool of yarn
His wife spun yesterday.

So he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars, And the green leaves on the tree,

If his wife didn’t do a day's work in her life, She should ne'er be ruled by he.

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