1 I'll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.
2 It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale.
3 Hold, take this letter; early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
4 I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow.'
5 A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
6 Now when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.
7 Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
8 Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
9 The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And darkness fleckled like a drunkard reels From forth day's pathway, made by Titan's wheels Hence will I to my ghostly Sire's cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.