Alack, alack, is it not that I,
So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
And skrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad -
O, if i wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears,
And madly play with my forefathers’ 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 desp’rate brains?
O look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost
Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body
Upon a rapier’s point! Stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, Romeo, Romeo! Here’s drink.
I drink to thee.

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Filed under: Mandrake

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