
Or, if I live, is it not very ilk, The horrible self-assertion of remainder and night, Together with the terror of the place,-- As in a vault, an past receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are packed: Where bloody Tybalt, yet exactly green in earth, Lies ontogenesis in his wrap up; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits recede;-- 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 life sentence mortals, hearing them, run sick(p):-- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these usurious fears? And madly break away with my forefathers joints? And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some extensive kinsmans bone, As with a club, hasten out my desperate brains? O, compress! methinks I see my cousins ghost quest 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, downright it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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