Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show Who car'd about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe; There throbb'd not there a thought which pierc'd the pall.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.william shakespeare
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