&plquo;Jul.
&plquo;Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
&plquo;It was the Nightingale, and not the Lark,
&plquo;That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
&plquo;Nightly she sings on yon pomgranate tree:

&plquo;Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

&plquo;Rom.
&plquo;It was the Lark, the herald of the morn,
&plquo;No Nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
&plquo;Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
&plquo;Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
&plquo;Stands tiptoe on the misty mountains' tops.
&plquo;I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

&plquo;Jul.
&plquo;Yon light is not day-light, I know it well:
&plquo;It is some meteor that the Sun exhales,
&plquo;To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
&plquo;And light thee on thy way to Mantua;
&plquo;Then stay a while, thou shalt not go so soon.

&plquo;Rom.
&plquo;Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death,
&plquo;I am content, if thou wilt have it so.
&plquo;I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye,
&plquo;'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
&plquo;Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
&plquo;The vaulty heav'ns so high above our heads.
&plquo;I have more care to stay, than will to go.
&plquo;Come death, and welcome: Juliet wills it so.
&plquo;How is't, my Soul? let's talk, it is not day.

Jul.
It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away:
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so: for she divideth us.
Some say, the lark and loaded ^note toad change eyes;
^{3 note}

Rom.
More light and light?—More dark and dark our Woes. Enter Nurse.

Nurse.
Madam,—

Jul.
Nurse?

Nurse.
Your lady mother's coming to your chamber:
The day is broke, be wary, look about. [Exit Nurse.

Jul.
Then, Window, let Day in, and let Life out.

Rom.
Farewel, farewel; one Kiss, and I'll descend. [Romeo descends.

Jul.
Art thou gone so? love! lord! ah husband! friend!
I must hear from thee ev'ry day in th' hour,
For in a minute there are many days.
O, by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Rom.
Farewel: I will omit no opportunity,
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Jul.
O think'st thou, we shall ever meet again?

Rom.
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses, in our time to come.

Jul.
O God! I have an ill-divining soul.—
Methinks, I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale.

Rom.
And trust me, love, in mine eye so do you:
Dry Sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu. [Exit Romeo.

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