The Tragedy Of Romeo And Juliet

Scene III. Juliet's chamber.

Enter Juliet and Nurse.

  Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse,
    I pray thee leave me to myself to-night;
    For I have need of many orisons
    To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
    Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin.

Enter Mother.

Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?

  Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries
    As are behooffull 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.

  Mother. Good night.
    Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.
                                      Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.]

  Jul. 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.
    What if this mixture do not work at all?
    Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?
    No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.
                                             Lays down a dagger.
    What if it be a poison which the friar
    Subtilly hath minist'red 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.
    I will not entertain so bad a thought.
    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 this many hundred years the bones
    Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd;
    Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
    Lies fest'ring 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…