The Lark 
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 
And Phoebus ’gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty is, 
My lady sweet arise : 
Arise, arise !1 
The bird-melodies of night and morning 
were never more delicately commin gled than 
in the garden scene where Juliet, from her 
window above, would fain persuade her lin- 
geri 
Jul. 
Rom. 
Jul. 
ng lover that it was not yet near day : 
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 yond pomegranate-tree : 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 
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 stay and die. 
Yond light is not day-light, I know it, I: 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
DEE ets, BQ, 
95 
