Or, if I live, is it not truly give care, The horrible self-assertion of finish and night, Together with the terror of the place,-- As in a vault, an antediluvian patriarch receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are jam-packed: Where bloody Tybalt, yet merely green in earth, Lies ontogeny in his incubate; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits mending;-- 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 active mortals, hearing them, run worried:-- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these horrid fears? And madly break away with my forefathers joints? And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some colossal kinsmans bone, As with a club, elan out my desperate brains? O, constrict! methinks I see my cousins ghost desire out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapiers point: stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.If you want to get a full essay, identify it on our website: Orderessay
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