Enter ROMEO and
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.
5Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
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
10Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I.
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torchbearer,
15And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet. Thou need’st not to be gone.
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.
20'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.—
25How is ’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not