Juliet. 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 yond 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. Yond 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 awhile, thou shalt not go so soon.

Romeo. Let me stay here, let me be ta'en, and die;
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;
I'll say it is the nightingale that beats
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads,
And not the lark, the messenger of morn.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
What says my love? Let's talk: 'tis not yet day.

Juliet. It is, it is: be gone, fly hence, 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 this divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
I would that now they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm her voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
So now be gone, more light and light it grows.

Romeo. More light and light: more dark and dark our woes!