Dying is sweeter than anger, kinder than love.
‘Tis a state of perfect ease and loneliness. ’Tis bliss and sadness, all as one.
Dying, I depart myself, ghostly aware, released from flesh and form to linger here but a little way above their heads, their blessed, cursed heads!
But the day goes on—how odd! Hath the universe forgotten me already? The world concerns itself with only those who live, and Mercutio lives no more! Worms’ meat am I! Young, and gone.
Dying, I mourn my own fierceness and all those petty losses.
Here in the hot sky, I am as vaporous as vanity, as airy as honor. I am nothing.
Mayhap, I was nothing all along.
And now some splendid force does tug upon my nothingness, guiding me higher. O, in dying I am forgiven, but even forgiven, I cannot forgive them that live.
Aye, a plague upon the Montagues, a scourge upon the Capulets! ’Tis what they deserve, and if heaven will not have me, I shall find another place.
Tybalt did remove me of my life. Romeo helped. He came between us, and I was hurt under his arm. Tybalt’s sword, it seems, is more ferocious than friendship.
As proof, see there my earthly remains. I bleed from near my heart.
But then, I always did.
And now the sky accepts me; earth recedes, I meet the sun.
Dying becomes death at last, and I am done.