![]() Who’s calling? Is it my mother? Has she stayed up late, or is she up early? What has happened to make her come to my room at such a strange hour? Lady Capulet If you are, I have some hope that you might change your mind and not keep Romeo away so long, but bring him back instead. If you are so fickle, what are you doing with my Romeo, who is well-known for his faithfulness? Be fickle, Fortune. Oh Fortune, they all say that you are fickle. Trust me, love, you look pale to me too - sorrow drains away our blood. Either my eyes are failing, or you look very pale. O God, I can’t stop imagining bad things happening! I feel like I can see you in a miserable state, as if dead in the bottom of a tomb. I have no doubt that we will, and all these sorrows we’re feeling now will be nostalgic memories we’ll look back on in the future. Oh, do you think we will ever meet again? Romeo I won’t miss any opportunity to send you my greetings, love. Every minute without Romeo will seem like a day, and I shall be very old before I see you again, my Romeo. JulietĪre you gone just like that, my love, my lord, my husband, my friend? I must hear from you every hour of every day. Romeoįarewell, farewell! One kiss, then I’ll descend. May the window let daylight in and you, my life, out. It’s past daybreak, so be wary, keep watch. The lighter it gets, the darker our sadness becomes. Oh, you must go away, it’s getting more and more light! Romeo ![]() Now I wish they’d switched voices as well, since that voice is ripping us from each other’s arms, and people will be hunting you. Some say that the lark and the toad switched eyes. It’s not true, since she’s dividing us as well. Some say that the lark has an excellent sense of rhythm and time. Go, get away from here, away! I admit it is the lark singing, sounding so out of tune and sharp in this moment. How are you, my love? Let’s talk, it’s not yet day. RomeoĬome, Death, and welcome! Juliet wills it to be this way. I have more impulse to stay here than will to leave. Nor is that sound the lark with its notes echoing in the heavens above us. I’ll say that gray light is not the morning, just the smallest reflection of the moon goddess’ face. Let me be taken, and let me be put to death - I’m happy as long as you wish it. So stay a little longer, you don’t need to leave. It must be some meteor the sun breathed this way to light a lamp for you tonight so you can see your way to Mantua. That light over there isn’t daylight, I know that for sure. I have to go and live, or stay here and be killed. Look, love, see the sun streaks lacing through the severe clouds there in the east? The stars have disappeared, and the cheerful day is reaching up over the eastern mountaintops. It was the lark - always a sign of morning - and not the nightingale. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. The nightingale sings every night on that pomegranate tree over there. That was the nightingale - not the morning lark - that just made that loud, piercing cry. Are you going to leave? It’s not yet that close to daytime.
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