Deciding that it’s now or never, Juliet sends the nurse away and takes the potion, knowing how terrifying it will be to wake up in her family’s tomb. If the mixture doesn’t work, she has a plan B: her dagger. She’s also worried that the potion might actually be poison, but decides to trust Friar Laurence. She drinks the potion and falls upon her bed.
Juliet
Yes, those clothes would be best. But my gentle nurse, please, leave me by myself tonight. I have many prayers to make in order to get heaven to smile on my coming marriage, for as you well know I’ve been contrary and sinful.
Lady Capulet
Hey, are you busy now? Do you need my help?
Juliet
No, Mother, we’ve collected the clothes I’ll need for the wedding tomorrow.
Juliet
If it’s okay with you, I’d prefer to be left alone tonight and let the nurse stay with you, for I’m sure you’ve got your hands full with this business and could use some extra help.
Lady Capulet
Good night. Get to bed, and sleep — you’ll need rest.
Juliet
Farewell! God knows when we’ll meet again. I feel a thrill of fear in my veins that almost seems like it could freeze up my life’s warmth.
Maybe I’ll call them back to comfort me. Oh but why should the nurse be here? I must go through this grim process alone. Potion, let’s do this. But what if this mixture doesn’t work at all? Will I have to be married tomorrow morning? No, no. This knife will prevent that in case the potion fails. Lie there.
What if it’s real poison, which the friar made to kill me so he wouldn’t be dishonored by this false marriage, knowing he married me to Romeo already? I’m afraid that’s what it is. And yet, still, I can’t believe that, because he’s proved himself to be a true holy man.
What if, after I’m laid to rest in the tomb, I wake up before Romeo comes to save me? That’s a fearful thought. Wouldn’t I be suffocated in the vault with the foul air and die before my Romeo arrives? Or, if I live through that, isn’t it likely that the terrors of death and night, combined with the creepiness of the place, will distress me? I’ll be in the ancient vault where for hundreds of years my ancestors have been buried.
I will be packed with their bones, Tybalt will be there newly dead and festering in his shroud, and they say foul spirits gather below the shrouds of the dead sometimes. Oh no, isn’t it most likely that if I wake up too early I’ll be faced with loathsome smells and shrieks of dead souls like magical beings whose cries make people go mad. Oh, won’t I be terribly distraught and surrounded by hideous frightful things? Will I go insane and play with my ancestor’s dead joints? Will I rip Tybalt’s mangled body from his shroud? What if I pick up a bone from some great ancestor in a mad rage and dash out my own brains?
Oh, look! I think I see my cousin’s ghost hunting Romeo, who ran him through with a rapier. Stop, Tybalt, stop! Romeo, I’m coming! I drink this to you.
