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THE PARTING OF ROMEO AND
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
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,
OLD MAN AND HIS WIFE.
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,
And you must feed the little pigs
“And you must mind the speckled hen,
And you must reel the spool of yarn,
The old woman took a whip in her hand,
The old man took a pail in his hand,
But Tidy hinched and Tidy flinched,
And Tidy gave him such a blow
“High! Tidy! ho! Tidy! high!
If ever I milk you, Tidy, again,
He went to feed the little pigs,
He hit his head against the beam,
He went to mind the speckled hen,
And he forgot the spool of yarn
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.