It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 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...
The Works of Shakespeare: the Text Carefully Restored According to the First ... - Página 116
por William Shakespeare - 1856
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