The Passionate Pilgrim

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Act I, Scene 15

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  • Shakespeare. Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
    My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise 195
    Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
    Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
    While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
    And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;
  • Shakespeare. For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, 200
    And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:
    The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
    Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
    Sorrow changed to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow;
    For why, she sigh'd and bade me come tomorrow. 205
  • Shakespeare. Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
    But now are minutes added to the hours;
    To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
    Yet not for me, shine sun to succor flowers!
    Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow: 210
    Short, night, to-night, and length thyself tomorrow.

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