Festival of song: a series of evenings with the poets . urnt out,—and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountains tops ! Among the masterly passages of the great dramatist may be classedthe soliloquy of Juliet, on drinking the opiate :— 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 : Ill call them back again to comfort me.— Nurse !—What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone.— Come, phial.— What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning ? No,
Festival of song: a series of evenings with the poets . urnt out,—and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountains tops ! Among the masterly passages of the great dramatist may be classedthe soliloquy of Juliet, on drinking the opiate :— 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 : Ill call them back again to comfort me.— Nurse !—What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone.— Come, phial.— What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning ? No, no ;—this shall forbid it : lie thou there.— [^Layitig down the if it be a poison, which the friarSubtly hath ministered to have me dead ;Lest in this marriage he should be 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 : I will not entertain so bad a thought.—How if, when I am laid into the tomb,I wake before the time that Romeo. Come to redeem me ? theres a fearful point !Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault,23 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 these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are packd ; 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 loathsonie 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
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1860, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
