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 heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you feel the loss, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. MERCUTIO. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing. ROMEO.