FastSaying

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm. So hallowed and so gracious is that time.

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare

Larks

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Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.
— William Shakespeare
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It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale.
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It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
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Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.
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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!
— William Shakespeare
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