it is not the lark, That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, in my lips, by thine my sin again. JULIET. You kiss by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. CAPULET. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral: Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sepulchre.