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 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,