Come, night, come loving black-brow’d night, Give me the light; upon thy back. The world is not the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him long But send him back. LADY CAPULET. I will, and know how this foul murder comes.