&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 yond 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 mountain tops.
&plquo;I must be gone and live, or stay and dye.

&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;^{m note}








Then stay a while, thou shalt not go so soon.

&plquo;Rom.
&plquo;Let me then stay, let me be ta'en and dye;
&plquo;If thou wilt have it so, I am content.
&plquo;I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye,
&plquo;'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
&plquo;I'll say it is the Nightingale that beats
&plquo;The vaulty heav'ns so high above our heads,
&plquo;And not the Lark, the messenger of morn.
&plquo;Come death and welcome: Juliet wills it so.
&plquo;What says my love? 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.
† ^noteSome say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O now I would they had chang'd voices too!
O now be gone, more light and light it grows.

Rom.
Farewel my love: one kiss, and I'll descend. Enter Nurse.

Nurse.
Madam.

Jul.
Nurse.

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

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: [Romeo descends.
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. [Exeunt.

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