he; And, pretty fool, To see now how a jest shall come about. I warrant, for this many hundred years the bones Of all the kindred 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 frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And fleckled darkness like a portly gentleman; And, to sink in it, should you fall into so deep as a lamb. Go thy ways,