And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.

_Romeo._ Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou will 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 vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death and welcome"--

SYLVETTE. No, he must not say such things, or I shall cry.

PERCINET. Then let us stop and read no further until to-morrow.
We shall let Romeo live! [He closes the book and looks about him.]
This charming spot seems expressly made, it seems to me, to
cradle the words of the Divine Will!

SYLVETTE. The verses are divine, and the soft air here is a divine
accompaniment. And see, these green shades! But, Monsieur
Percinet, what makes them divine to me is the way you read!

PERCINET. Flatterer!

SYLVETTE. [Sighing] Poor lovers! Their fate was cruel!
[Another sigh] I think--

PERCINET. What?