Jul.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom.
It was the lark, the herald 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 tip-toe on the misty mountain tops;
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

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

Rom.
Let me be ta'en; let me be put to death,
I am content, if thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon grey is not the morning eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow,
I'll say, 'tis not the lark whose notes do beat,
The vaulty heav'ns so high above our heads:
Come, death, and welcome: Juliet wills it so.
What says my love? Let's talk, it is not day.

Jul.
It is, it is, hie hence away, be gone;
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Oh now be gone, more light and light it grows.

Rom.
More light and light?—more dark and dark our woes.
Farewel, my love; one kiss, and I'll be gone. Enter Nurse.

Nurse.
Madam.

Jul.
Nurse.

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

Jul.
Art thou gone so? love! lord! ah, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee ev'ry day, in th' hour,
For in love's hours 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 to thee, love.

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 heav'n! I have an ill-divining soul;
Methinks I see thee, now thou'rt parting from me,
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!
My life, my love, my soul. Adieu! [Exeunt.

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