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 pack’d: 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:⁠— O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears? And madly play with my forefather’s 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 desperate 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, I come! this do I drink to thee. She falls upon her bed, within the curtains.