Romeo and Juliet, Act 4, Scene 3

Ay, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself tonight; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.

Yes, those clothes are the best ones. But, kind Nurse, please leave me by myself tonight; I need to say many prayers to persuade heaven to smile on my situation, which, as you well know, is troubled and full of sin.

What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?

Well, are you busy? Do you need my help?

No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries As are behoveful for our state tomorrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you, For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business.

No, madam. We've already picked out the things that are suitable for us tomorrow. So if you don't mind, let me be left alone now, and let the Nurse stay up tonight with you, because I'm sure you have your hands completely full with this business that has come up so suddenly.

Good night. Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.

Good night. Go to bed and rest, because you need it.

Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. I’ll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!—What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.

Goodbye. God knows when we'll meet again. I have a faint cold fear shivering through my veins that almost freezes up the warmth of life. I'll call them back to comfort me. Nurse!—What would she do here? I have to act out my grim scene alone. Come here, bottle. What if this mixture doesn't work at all? Will I be married tomorrow morning then? No, no! This will prevent that. You lie there.

What if it be a poison, which the Friar Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is. And yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There’s a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place, As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where for this 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 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 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, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee.

What if it's a poison that the Friar has cunningly given me to kill me, so that he isn't disgraced by this marriage, because he married me to Romeo before? I'm afraid it is. And yet I think it can't be, for he has always proved to be a holy man. What if, after I'm laid in the tomb, I wake up before the time when Romeo comes to rescue me? That's a terrifying thought! Won't I then be suffocated in the vault, into whose foul mouth no healthy air breathes, and die there choked before my Romeo comes? Or, if I do live, isn't it very likely that the horrible idea of death and night, together with the terror of the place—for it is a vault, an ancient burial chamber, where for so many hundreds of years the bones of all my buried ancestors are packed, where bloody Tybalt, still fresh in the ground, lies rotting in his shroud, where, they say, at certain hours of the night spirits gather—oh no, oh no, isn't it likely that I, waking so early, with the disgusting smells and the shrieks like mandrake roots pulled out of the ground, which drive living people mad when they hear them—oh, if I wake, won't I go out of my mind, surrounded by all these hideous terrors, and play insanely with my ancestors' bones? And drag the mangled Tybalt out of his shroud? And, in that frenzy, with some great kinsman's bone as a club, smash out my own despairing brains? Oh look, I think I see my cousin's ghost hunting for Romeo, who ran a sword through his body. Stop, Tybalt, stop! Romeo, Romeo, Romeo, here's the drink! I drink to you.