Begot of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not yet near day. It was the nightingale. ROMEO. It was the lark, That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was so? O, give me occasion. MERCUTIO. Could you not take some occasion without giving? TYBALT. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. MERCUTIO. Consort? What, dost thou with Rosaline? ROMEO. With love’s light wings did I o’erperch