it was the nightingale, and not the lark,
that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
nightly she sings on yon pomegrante-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
-It was the lark, the herald of morn,
no nightingale: look love, what envious streaks
do lance the severing clouds in yonder east:
night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
stand tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops;
I must be gone and live, or stay and dye.
-Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
to be to thee this noght a torch-bearer,
and ligh thee on thy way to Mantua:
therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
-Let me be ta'en, let me put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
'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.
-It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away;
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
straining harsh discords, ans unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
this doth not so, for she divideth us;
some say, the lark and the loathed toad change'd eyes;
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
hunting thee hence with huts-up to the day.
O, be gone; more light and light it grows.
-More light and light! - mor edark and dark our woes.
Shakspeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene V