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.