JULIET: Farewell!—God knows when we shall meet again. I wake before the time that Romeo I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins Come to a fearful point. redeem me? There’s That almost freezes up the heat of life. Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault back again to comfort me.— To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, I’ll call them Nurse!—What should she do here? And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Or, if I live, is it not very like Come, vial. (holds out the vial) The horrible conceit of death and night, What if this mixture do not work at all? Together with the terror of the place— Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, No, no. This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Where for these many hundred years the bones (lays her knife down) Of all my buried ancestors are packed; What if it be a poison, which the friar Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Subtly hath ministered to have me dead, Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored At some hours in the night spirits resort—? Because he married me before to Romeo? Alack, alack, is it not like that I, I fear it is. And yet, methinks, it should not, So early waking, what with loathsome smells, For he hath still been tried a holy man. And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, How if, when I am laid into the tomb, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad—?
JULIET: Farewell!—God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. 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. (holds out the vial) What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No, no. This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. (lays her knife down) What if it be a poison, which the friar Subtly hath ministered to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored 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 breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it 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 packed; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud; 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—?
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