Jul.
Wilt thou be gone?
It was the Nightingale, and not the Lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine Ear,
Nightly she sings on yond Pomgranate 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 tiptoe on the misty Mountain tops,
I must be gone and live, or stay and dye.

Jul.
Yon Light is not Day-light, I know it, I:
It is some Meteor that the Sun exhales,
To be to thee this Night a Torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay, yet thou need'st not to be gone.

Rom.
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to Death,
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon gray is not the Morning's Eye,

'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's Brow,
Nor that is not the Lark whose Notes do beat
The vaulty Heavens so high above our Heads,
I have more care to stay, than will to go:
Come Death and welcome, Juliet wills it so.
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 loathed Toad change Eyes,
O now I would they had chang'd Voices too:
Since, arm from arm, that Voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence, with Hunts-up to the Day,
O now be gone, more light, and light it grows.

Rom.
More light and light, more dark and dark our Woes. Enter Nurse.

Nur.
Madam.

Jul.
Nurse.

Nur.
Your Lady Mother is coming to your Chamber:
The Day is broke, be wary, look about.

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

Rom.
Farewel, farewel, one Kiss, and I'll Descend.

Jul.
Art thou gone so? Love! Lord! ah Husband! Friend!
I must hear from thee every Day in the Hour, [Romeo comes down by the Ladder into the Garden.
For in a Minute there are many Days,
O by this count I shall be much in Years,
E're I again behold my Romeo.

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

Jul.
O thinkest 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 so low,
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 my Eye so do you:
Dry Sorrow drinks our Blood. Adieu, adieu. [Exeunt.

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