Jul.
Ay, those Attires are best; but, gentle Nurse,
I pray thee leave me to my self to Night:
For I have need of many Orisons,
To move the Heavens to smile upon my state,
Which well thou know'st is cross and full of Sin.

Enter Lady Capulet.

La. Cap.
What are you busie, ho? Need you my help?

Jul.
No, Madam, we have cull'd such Necessaries
As are behoveful for our state to morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the Nurse this Night sit up with you;
For I am sure you have your Hands full all,
In this so sudden Business.

Mo.
Good night,
Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. [Exeunt.

Jul.
Farewel;
God knows, when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my Veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of Fire:
I'll call them back again to comfort me.
Nurse—what should she do here?
My dismal Scene, I needs must act alone:
Come Vial—what if this Mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married to morrow Morning?
No, no, this shall forbid it; Lye thou there. [Pointing to a Dagger.
What if it be a Poison, which the Friar,
Subtilly hath ministred, to have me dead,
Lest in this Marriage he should be dishonour'd,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is, and yet methinks it should not,
For he hath still been tried a Holy Man.
How, if when I am laid into the Tomb,
I wake before the time, that Romeo
Come to redeem me? There's a fearful Point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the Vault,
To whose foul Mouth no healthsome Air breaths in,
And there die strangled e'er my Romeo comes?
Or if I live, it is not very like,
The horrible conceit of Death and Night,
Together with the Terror of the place,
As in a Vault, an ancient Receptacle,
Where, for these many hundred Years, the Bones
Of all my buried Ancestors are packt;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in Earth,
Lies festring in his Shrowd; where, as they say,
At some Hours in the Night, Spirits resort—

Alack, alack! is it not like that I
So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like Mandrakes torn out of the Earth,
That living Mortals, hearing them, run mad—
Or if I walk, shall I not be distraught,
Invironed with all these hideous Fears,
And madly play with my Fore-fathers Joints,
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his Shroud?
And in this Rage, with some great Kinsman's Bone,
As with a Club, dash out my desperate Brains?
O look! methinks I see my Cousin's Ghost,
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his Body
Upon his Rapier's Point: Stay, Tybalt stay!
Romeo! Romeo! Romeo! here's drink—I drink to thee. [Exit.

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