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90 ROMEO AND JULIET. That pierc'd tlie fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Borneo. 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 candies 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 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 yet, thou need'st not to be gone. Borneo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon gray 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 vaiilty 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 ;