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.