copies of this electronic work, or any part of this lamentable chance? The lady stirs. [_Juliet wakes and stirs._] JULIET. O swear not by the terms 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 dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how