Leituras de uma noite de Verão

Wilt thou be gone? Is is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of the thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yound pomegranade tree.
Belive 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.

W. Shakespeare