What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but “I,” And that bare vowel “I” shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice: I am not I, if there be such an I; Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer “I.” If he be slain, say “I”; or if not, no: Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes⁠— God save the mark!⁠—here on his manly breast: A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight.

O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once! To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here; And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!

O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead!