lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo. 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 die.

Juliet. Yon light is not daylight, 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.

Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey 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 heaven 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.

Juliet. 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 hunt's-up to the day. O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Romeo. More light and light?--More dark and dark our woes! Enter Nurse

Nurse. Madam!

Juliet. Nurse?

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

Juliet. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Romeo. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend. [Romeo descends.]

Juliet. Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend! I must hear from thee every day in the 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!

Romeo. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

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

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