The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she promised to return. Perchance she cannot meet him: that's not so. O, she is lame! love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, Driving back shadows over louring hills:Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love,And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.Now is the sun upon the highmost hillOf this day's journey, and from nine till twelveIs three long hours, yet she is not come.Had sh...